


Mark Time

by foil



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aang is a cinnamon roll, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, F/M, Father/Son Incest, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lesbian Suki (Avatar), M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Proud member of the Azula Fan Club, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Suki+Sokka solidarity, Trauma, Wedding Planning, characters will be tagged as they appear, pre-Suki/Azula, toph goes for the tit punches, zuko and aang are bffs, zuko doesn't cope with shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 80,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24643351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foil/pseuds/foil
Summary: Five years ago, Sokka left Zuko without a word of warning. Now Aang and Katara's wedding is bringing them back together, and Zuko has to set aside his anger to get some answers about Sokka, their relationship, and the man he himself yearns to become.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 1451
Kudos: 1720





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I've just baaaarely dipped my toes into this franchise/fandom (though I'm doing a ton of reading trying to catch up), so I apologize for any inaccuracies, misconceptions, and clichés. I'm very nervous and I hope you enjoy.

Zuko's a good enough best man to know that Aang's not a real strippers-and-cigar-bars type of groom, so he books the bachelor party at the Butterfly Pavilion and embosses the invitations with fragile foil wings. Katara addresses the envelopes for him in her flawless calligraphy as they watch Aang lose it over the seating chart for the four-hundredth time.

"Ty Lee and Mai should be at the same table, but since they're fighting with Azula, maybe she should sit with Yue instead? Oh, but Yue's next to Suki, and Suki hates Azula too, so—"

"So throw my sister into a time-out corner by herself," says Zuko. "Done."

"Zuko, please," Aang groans.

"It might not even be necessary by then," Katara says. "I have reason to believe Toph is taking us all paintballing for my bachelorette party, so we'll have plenty of time to work out any pent-up aggression."

Aang considers. "Paintballing. That's so—violent. We're not going paintballing, are we, Zuko?"

"No," says Zuko.

"Even laser tag is really hostile. Are we doing laser tag?"

"No more hints," Zuko says, and hunches protectively over the counter as Aang cranes his neck to see the invites. "Stop trying to peek!"

"Sorry," says Aang, sighing. He drops the seating chart. "All this wedding stuff is wearing on me. It seemed like such a good idea at first! See Katara in a pretty dress, slow-dance, try fifteen different types of wedding cake in one day—"

"Spend night throwing up said wedding cake," Katara continues. "Decide on wedding salad bar instead."

"Hey, it's a revolutionary idea!"

"It'll be great," says Zuko, without sarcasm, "because you two love each other."

Aang and Katara exchange a soft, beautiful look at that. "You're right," says Aang. "There's no way this can go wrong, as long as I get to put a ring on your finger and call you Missus Katara Pippinpaddleopsicopolis."

Zuko's pretty damn sick of that joke—hell, he doesn't even know Katara's real last name—but he'll listen to it a hundred more times as long as they stay as happy and in love as they are right now.

The two of them met under harrowing circumstances. Aang fell through some thin ice on an idiotic solo hiking trip in the early spring, and Katara, working part-time as a park ranger, rescued him like an action heroine. Saved his damn life. She was too mad at him to date him the first three times he begged, but she finally caved in the day he packed her watchtower with bluebells and white camellias. She'll carry the same flowers in her wedding bouquet in a little over a month. Zuko no longer believes in marriage, but he's grateful for the time all the event planning has granted him with Aang and Katara. He couldn't have picked a more courageous, intelligent, and compassionate bride for his best friend.

Or a more beautiful one. For not the first time, Zuko studies Katara sidelong, admiring her complexion and her smile, her vivid blue eyes. She always looks so stunning. So much like—

"Hey, spend the night, Zuko," says Aang, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's getting late."

Zuko glances out the window into the dark, rainy night, then at Katara for confirmation. She nods at him. "I'm almost done here," she says, putting down her calligraphy pen. She counts the envelopes. "Okay, we've got Jet, Teo, Haru, Pipsqueak, and my brother, who's flying in tomorrow."

"Seriously?" Zuko demands, throwing up his hands. "Why did I even make his invite in the first place?"

"Sorry, I just wanted him to have a keepsake! Well-meaning traditions can be fun, you know? I think we can expect a seal oil lamp from Gran Gran."

"And Gyatso's kite collection," says Aang.

"And Dad's wall-mounted animatronic bass that sings 'Take Me To The River.'"

Aang snaps his fingers. "We'll put that in the powder room!"

He's joking. The bathroom of their apartment is the size of a closet, barely large enough to fit the toilet, the shower, and a square of cheap countertop that hosts a chipped sink. They've outgrown it. They'll need to move shortly after the wedding. And though they haven't spoken to Zuko about it, he knows that they intend to start a family within the next three years or so. 

Just the thought of it makes Zuko feel obsolete.

Some of this must show on his face, because Aang says, "Katara, can I catch up with you in a few minutes?"

"Of course," says Katara, gathering the envelopes and excusing herself gracefully. She kisses Aang's head, then Zuko's. "You boys get to bed at a reasonable hour."

"Right behind you, babe."

She disappears down the tiny hall and closes the bedroom door. Aang's quiet for a moment, staring after her with helpless affection.

"She's _perfect_ ," he says.

"Well, don't let me keep you," Zuko grumbles, beginning to stand.

Aang catches his elbow. "Zuko, wait. I'd like to talk to you."

Zuko sits again with great reluctance. He knows this tone. "Please don't ask me how I'm doing," he says.

"Okay," says Aang, after a pause. "I won't."

They haven't quite finished the tea in the pot on the stove. Aang fetches it and tops off Zuko's mug, the smell of it comforting, familiar and floral. Zuko sips at it as Aang struggles to begin this inevitable conversation. Zuko should be used to this, Aang's weekly check-ins, but they always manage to catch him like a slap in the face. He can never be ready enough for them.

"How are you doing?" Aang asks finally.

"Aang!" Zuko explodes.

"Sorry, sorry! I need to know; I'm worried about you. Just give me, like, three adjectives."

Zuko forces himself to think about it. He's—terrified. He's angry. He's doing everything he can not to let it get to him, but it creeps in when he's alone, the knowledge of the impossible task that is being asked of him in two weeks. It's strange. In a way, Aang's wedding seems achingly trivial to him, an arbitrary celebration that has him fussing with tinfoil when he should be thinking about how his life is about to change. And at the same time, he could not be more grateful for the distraction.

"I'm fine," Zuko says at last. "Coping. Confident."

"You don't have to lie, you know," Aang says.

"I'm not lying."

"You are, but I meant to the judge. At the trial. You don't have to protect him just because he's your father."

"Clearly you've never had one," Zuko snaps—and hates himself for it immediately. "Oh, Aang—I'm so sorry. I—"

"It's okay," says Aang easily, grasping Zuko's hand. "I guess that's true in ways. But I've always thought that blood is overrated. Earned love, mutual respect, found family—those are the things that are really important. _You_ are important, Zuko."

Zuko's throat feels tight. "Fuck, Aang. I don't deserve you."

"You deserve more than this world has given you," Aang says, with simple conviction. He leans back, yawning. "I'll even let you have the good blankets tonight. Are you going to be okay on the couch?"

"Yeah," says Zuko. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'm picking Katara's brother up at the airport tomorrow at ten. You coming with?"

"Sure. I'll drive." He's not super interested in going, but Aang's little orange Smart car doesn't hold a lot of luggage, and Zuko knows that he gets nervous about borrowing the Cadillac. Hell, he doesn't even let Zuko buy him lunch, so he's always pleased when he gets a chance to do Aang a favor. And he's curious about Katara's family. "I hope he's not an asshole," says Zuko.

Aang's voice grows teasing. "Why? Don't want him usurping you?"

"Wow. Groomzilla Aang is mean."

"Groomzilla Aang is tired. I'm gonna hit it. Sleep well, okay?"

"Okay. Goodnight, Aang."

"Goodnight, Zuko."

While Aang and Katara brush their teeth and get ready for bed, Zuko cleans up the kitchen, putting away his crafting supplies and washing the mugs and teapot. In the small, claustrophobic living room, he clambers into a pair of sweatpants. He and Aang stash changes of clothes at each other's apartments, especially now that they're spending so much time together on wedding preparations. He pulls a few blankets from the linen closet—not the nice ones—and arranges himself under a thin quilt until the bathroom is unoccupied.

He falls asleep waiting.

The dream begins almost immediately.

_Summertime. Sokka._

He's wilting in the heat, hair swept out of his face into a high ponytail, fanning himself with the sheet music he's annotating for the year's marching band competition. Zuko's reclining in the boat, facing him. Their legs stick together whenever they shift. The lake is as still as glass around them, and Zuko admires his boyfriend with langid affection; Sokka's sweat-beaded temples, his eyes bluer than the sky. He rolls over, whining.

"I'm burning up, Zuko! How can you stand it out here?"

"I was forged in the fires of a thousand suns."

"I was hewn in the ice of a thousand 7-Eleven walk-in freezers. Will you buy me some ice cream when we get back to town?"

"Sure."

"Great," says Sokka, reaching for an oar.

"I didn't mean right this second!"

"Then you better give me some incentive to stay," says Sokka, leaning forward and puckering up.

Zuko kisses him. It's only meant to be a peck, but he can't help himself from deepening it when he tastes him, and Sokka keeps pulling him back again, snickering. They're completely immersed in each other within seconds. Zuko plucks the sheet music from Sokka's hands and sets it aside, laying him back and devouring his pretty, grinning mouth. 

When they pull apart, Sokka says, quietly, "Marry me."

Zuko blinks. "What?"

"When I graduate. I know it's a year away, but I love you, Zuko; I love you _so_ damn much, and the thought of losing you when you go to college is just—"

"Let's do it," says Zuko.

"What?"

"Let's get married."

Sokka blinks at him, eyes wide, then hurls himself at Zuko with such force that the little boat rolls over. The sheet music is sent drifting through the air. Zuko stares up at it as he sinks through the gorgeously clear water, feeling a peace like never before. His father isn't here. The anger in his head is quieter, subliminal. And he already sees Sokka breaking through the blue in his effortless breaststroke, smile radiant, ready to pull them both gasping to the surface—

—Zuko falls off the couch in the warm light of morning.

"Are you okay?" Katara asks him from the kitchen, where she's waiting for Pop Tarts in front of the tiny toaster oven.

"Fine," says Zuko, disoriented. God, he hasn't had that dream in ages. It must be the stress and the recent proximity to Katara, who really looks _so much like Sokka_ , right down to the little quirk of amusement at the corner of her mouth, fond and without cruelty.

"We really need to invest in a guest futon," she says.

"The couch is fine."

"You just fell off of it."

"I fall off a lot of things. No, I don't. That doesn't make any sense. I'm tired."

"You don't have to come with me," says Aang, smoothing a fresh shirt over his head as he strolls out of his bedroom. "You can keep sleeping. Or—" he lowers his voice a little, speaking gently: "Were you dreaming about that again? You want to get up and shake it off?"

How does Aang do that, know him so well with just a look? Zuko nods minutely, so Katara doesn't catch it, and Aang lays one hand in Zuko's hair and ruffles energetically. Zuko smiles. He'd never admit it, but he loves the casual physical contact Aang imparts upon him. He's the only person who can touch him like that without getting all their fingers broken.

He and Aang were online friends for years before they met in person, running Guild Wars fractals together, their Elementalist avatars wearing matching armor sets. Aang never got to meet Sokka—he moved to the city a month after Sokka disappeared across the country without a kiss, without a single _word_ —so he was the one who had to pick up all of Zuko's pieces. To this day, Zuko has never so much as spoken Sokka's name to Aang, and there is nothing he can do to repay him for his kindness, patience, and empathy.

The very least he can do is drive him to the airport. Zuko stands up and stretches. "Is it almost ten?"

"Yeah, nine-thirty. We should go. Let me just kiss my _fiancée_ goodbye."

"I love the sound of that," says Katara, warding Aang off as he leans in to kiss her. "'Goodbye,' I mean. Wow, you really need a shave and a shower."

"I wanted your brother to know I'm one of the men," Aang says, proudly rubbing his two chin hairs. "Have a good day at work!"

"Thanks. Meet you for dinner."

She waits until he has his back turned before blasting him with the canned air freshener.

*

"Okay, he just got on the tram," says Aang. "He should be coming up that escalator any second."

Zuko waits impatiently. Some asshole in a muscle car cut him off on the highway, and the airport parking garage was a bitch to navigate. He only knows he's actively making a face when he sees Aang trying to replicate it, crossing his arms and testing out various tough guy stances before sighing and settling into his normal posture.

"I just want him to like me," Aang says mournfully.

"He'll like you," says Zuko. "Everyone likes you. And why do you assume the guy's—"

"Like you?"

"...I was going to say 'a dickhead.'"

"You were the one who gave me the idea last night! Besides, you pretty boys are always flexing about something," says Aang, frowning. "I just don't get it."

Zuko wants to argue against being a pretty boy—he's _rugged_ , dammit—but he's more interested in pursuing another thread of that sentence. "You've seen pictures of him? What does he look like?"

"Like a taller, slightly buffer Katara. You can really tell they're related. Katara's always calling him a moron, but I think he must actually be pretty smart, because he writes the drill for marching band halftime shows. It's a very strategic process, like moving chess pieces around a—oh, you know what drill is; you were in band, right? Field commander? I wish I'd lived here back then. I bet you were super handsome in uniform."

Zuko's throat tightens. A strange, cold feeling is trickling into his stomach. "Did he used to live here?"

"Yeah yeah, with their aunt! He moved on base with their dad when Katara was sixteenish, so they had a few years together before she came back here for the forest service work."

"What's his name?" Zuko asks.

"Oh! That reminds me!" Aang holds up a finger, reaches into the bright yellow backpack he carries everywhere with him, and produces a piece of poster board covered in blue glitter-glue block letters. "Ta-da!"

 _WELCOME SOKKA!!!!_ reads the sign.

Zuko doesn't have time to hide.

People begin pouring off the escalator, and Sokka appears in the lobby, waving full-armed at Aang before he sees Zuko standing there beside him. His suitcase hits the floor by his feet. He's very still in the crowd, travelers spilling around him, like a river split by rock.

 _He's older,_ Zuko thinks distantly. Of course he's older. He was only seventeen the year he left Zuko. He's twenty-two now; his brown hair has grown out, and he wears it down, combed neatly back behind ears that are ringed in tiny star-shaped studs. His eyes are bluer than Zuko remembered. Brightening with sudden tears. Zuko cursed Sokka's existence the day he opened his cleared-out school locker, swore never to even speak his name again, but what he wants to do now is bridge their distance, sweep him into his arms, and kiss him senseless.

Instead, all he does is stand there.

"Zuko?" says Aang, confused. "Sokka?" He glances back and forth between them a few times before their expressions give them away; there is no playing it off, no pretending. Aang's gaze grows heartsick. "Oh, no," he says quietly. "Zuko—"

It's the nudge Zuko needs to turn and walk. He melts away into the crowd, hands shaking in his pockets. He'll meet them by his car. Right now, in this terrible, grief-riddled moment, he just needs to fucking move.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the words of encouragement!!

Zuko's hands almost stop trembling before Sokka and Aang reach the car, but seeing Sokka approach in the rearview mirror sets it all off again: the flame-hot rage; the shock; the furious, confused _desperation_. He steps out of his car with his hands balled, and only realizes he's about to throw a punch when Aang shoves him back. Has to put some real muscle in it, too, because Zuko is on a warpath.

"You fucking asshole!" Zuko yells. "You selfish, cocky, cruel piece of shit!"

Sokka just nods and takes it, and his pathetic passivity would set Zuko off more, except that he looks just as rattled as he is. He's taller now, his shoulders broader, but they're hunched inward, and he's got his lovely lips pressed together into a shaky line. Zuko breaks past Aang and steps forward, leading with a raised fist. Sokka doesn't flinch, though, and Zuko doesn't strike. He's not that person anymore. Hasn't been, not since the day Sokka kissed his angry, lost, seventeen-year-old self back after a summer marching band practice. Zuko lets his arm fall to his side. He turns away, and Aang's right there, gripping both his shoulders.

"Zuko, breathe," Aang says. "You gotta breathe, okay?"

Zuko realizes he's holding his breath and lets it all out in one big, quavering gust. He inhales slowly. A sob breaks it, and he squeezes his burning eyes shut, humiliated. Aang gently bumps his forehead with his own, then glances back up at Sokka.

"We should go back to the terminal and get a taxi," he says.

"I'll drive," Zuko says through gritted teeth. "Just give me a second."

"Heh, I just gave you five years," is Sokka's first contribution to a conversation in half a fucking decade, and Zuko's so appalled and startled by the joke that he actually barks out a laugh. And damned if that doesn't make him a thousand times madder, that Sokka is still _funny_ , Sokka is still luminous, Sokka is still _Sokka_ —

"If you're sure," Aang says to Zuko, then turns on Sokka and says, in a calm, blank voice, "I should kick your ass."

Zuko practically busts a gut, which exactly no one appreciates, least of all himself. Sokka raises his hands in alarm, and Zuko knows why: Aang has only been truly angry once or twice in all of their years of friendship, and when he is, it's like the air around him crackles with fury. He stares Sokka down with ease. The only person scarier than Aang is his fiancée, whose name Sokka invokes shamelessly:

"Katara wouldn't want you to break my face, but if you want me to fly back, I will. Honestly, I didn't—"

Now his voice cracks. He finishes the sentence in a whisper.

"I didn't know."

Aang glances helplessly at Zuko, who has no idea what he's supposed to do now. Forgive him? Zuko has had years of practice learning humility and grace from his uncle, but this isn't exactly a part-time job at a tea shop, and Sokka is no broken cup. For a long, shameful time, Zuko actually wished ill upon him. Those days have passed, but seeing him so handsome and healthy and intact makes him wonder if he could've used a little bad luck. He's beautifully toned, his gait surer, the gangliness gone from his limbs. Surely he hadn't deserved to—to _blossom_.

Zuko is suddenly aware of his own appearance. He changed out of the sweatpants, but he's still wearing the same rumpled black button-up he fell asleep in, and his hair is tousled. He's no longer the sleek, put-together heir he was when he was in high school. He looks like a baby bird that just got punted out of its nest.

Which isn't too far off the mark.

But Sokka says, softly, "Love the whole garage rock thing you got going on, Zuko. Never thought I'd see you wear Chuck Taylors."

"Never thought I'd see you at all," says Zuko coldly.

"Had that coming," says Sokka, wincing.

Zuko turns to unlock his trunk and seizes Sokka's suitcase. "Everyone get in the car."

"Oh, I can grab—"

"Sokka, _sit down."_

Sokka quickly disappears into the Caddy, and Zuko packs away his luggage, trying not to dwell on how good it felt to say his name aloud for the first time in years. Aang bangs Sokka's door shut on his way to shotgun and sits down in a huff. It's nice to have someone mad on your behalf, thinks Zuko. Affirming. So much less lonely than being angry alone. He gives Aang's hand a brief, shaky squeeze before he turns the key and grabs the clutch. Then he's hauling ass out of his parking space, engine roaring, and Sokka is falling over in the backseat with a yelp.

"Buckle up," says Zuko.

*

The original plan was to go to the fusion brunch place to get to know each other, eat kimchi sliders, and watch Aang make an ass of himself trying to impress the esteemed in-law. Instead, Zuko and Aang drop Sokka off at the apartment to get settled, then accost Katara at the community center.

"Little busy here," she says. She's a vision in her pale blue swimsuit, guiding a giggling toddler in arm floaties around the kiddie pool. "Can you summarize?"

"It's complicated," Zuko begins, at the same time Aang says in one breath, "Your brother is the long lost love who broke Zuko's heart five years ago and messed him up so badly that he refuses to watch Jane Austen adaptations or do the Dinner-For-Two specials when we go out, even though I told him that it's totally platonic and I just wanted to try some cheap carrot fritters."

"Aang!" Zuko roars. The toddler starts crying.

"Hold up. My brother Sokka," says Katara, having miraculously followed all that. "My brother who once fainted in the tampon aisle of a CVS? _He's_ Zuko's Casanova?"

"You should've seen their faces when they first saw each other," says Aang. "It was unmistakable."

Katara laughs uneasily. "I don't believe it."

"It's true," says Zuko. "It's him."

She stares at them for a moment, trying to decide if they're messing with her. There must be something telling in Zuko's demeanor, though, because her suspicious smile fades, and she stands up to hoist the baby out of the water and pass her back to her parent. "Yue, I need to take my half hour," she calls to the beautiful woman in the lifeguard stand, who gives her a thumbs up in return. Katara climbs out of the pool and grabs a towel. "Outside," she says. "Now."

The three of them find a quiet spot along the shady side of the building. Katara releases her hair from her swimming cap and sips at a bottle of water, her eyes contemplative. She looks guilty, and that makes Zuko ache. He never wanted her to feel badly about this.

"I'm so sorry. How could I not have known?" she says.

"How _could_ you have known, babe?" Aang asks. "Zuko never mentioned him by name. It was deliberate."

"Surely I've talked about Sokka before?"

"You say 'my brother.' Or 'that idiot,' in the case of all the recent three a.m. drunk dials."

Katara jumps to his defense at once. "He's going through a rough patch! He was really stressed out about coming back here because—" she pulls up short. "Because he had a bad breakup. That's why he moved in with me and Dad for his senior year."

"Is that what he told you?" Zuko demands. "There was no 'breakup!' He fucking vanished!"

She's silent for another moment. "Zuko, it's not my place to tell you this, but when Sokka joined us on base, he was—not okay."

That gives Zuko pause. "'Not okay' how?"

"Confused. Barely spoke. I couldn't get any details out of him, but we spent a lot of time watching movies together, and he was super clingy for the first few months. We hadn't lived together since we were kids, but I'd never seen him like that before. Something was very wrong. That's all I know."

That mitigates the tiniest bit of Zuko's anger. He'd actually talked himself into believing that Sokka left him for another man, perhaps, or because he was bored or malicious. But that was never the case, was it? His wordless disappearance was inarguably selfish, but maybe there was something to his departure besides cruelty. Something external, or—or medical, or impossible to explain.

"Is he okay now?" Zuko asks quietly.

"I think so, yes," says Katara. "But—if you were the ex, you really changed him."

It's not enough. Nothing would be enough, at this point. But it lights up a part of Zuko that'd been dark for years. He straightens, and finds that he feels just a little bit taller.

"Communication!" Aang shouts suddenly, startling Zuko and Katara as he smacks a hearty fist into his opposite palm. "Communication is key!"

"Yeah, because clearly that's his forte," Zuko says.

Katara smiles kindly. "Says you."

"Says me," agrees Zuko, defensive. "We can't fix this. Not in a month. Not in twenty years."

"You'll never know if you don't try," says Aang.

He's not wrong. Zuko grimaces and tries to imagine himself hashing things out with Sokka, all calm and adult over a cup of tea. God, Sokka's unpacking at the apartment right this second. Zuko wonders what kinds of clothes he wears these days. High school Sokka was a mess whenever he didn't have to follow dress code—skinny jeans and studded belts, blue everything, striped ties over obscure band tees. He was in a simple red v-neck at the airport, and the deep, new color sang against his dark skin. He has a whole wardrobe that Zuko hasn't seen him in.

The thought makes his heart pound.

Zuko licks his lips, frustrated with himself. What now? They have to play nice for the wedding, and their trust is too broken to ever regain what they lost, but maybe a cool acquaintanceship isn't impossible. They're different people now, and Zuko has learned from his past. He's more guarded. Smarter.

More damaged.

 _I have no idea what happened with him_ , Zuko thinks, with a sudden, clear resolve. _He has no idea what happened to me._ And that mutual ignorance might just be able to get them through these next weeks without killing each other or breaking down.

"Okay," says Zuko finally. "Okay, I won't destroy him."

"Glad to hear it," says Katara. "We already bought his tux."

"Please talk to him," Aang says gently. "For us?"

"You don't need to pull that card. I'll do it because I am a fucking adult," he says, to which Aang giggles and Katara rolls her eyes. Zuko needs better friends. He angles a thumb toward the parking lot. "You coming with, Aang?"

"Oh, I think I'll stay here and go home with Katara," says Aang.

"I have five hours left in my shift," Katara reminds him. "It's your day off."

"I can't think of a better way to spend it than watching my beautiful future bride play with cute babies on kickboards," says Aang, with absolutely no sarcasm.

"You're sweet," says Katara, blushing.

"You're gross," says Zuko. "I'm out."

"Good luck," they chorus, and Zuko raises a halfhearted hand as he strolls back to his car.

Inside, he sits for a minute. It's hot, but he doesn't start the air-conditioning. He was always in his element in the heat, unflagging during sweltering band practices, even as Sokka groaned and rolled around on the Astroturf and sweated up a storm. Afterward, they'd cool off together in Zuko's car—a Lexus, back then—and Sokka would sing along to the radio in his tuneless voice, goofy and unselfconscious. They did most of their making out in the front seat. That was where they were the safest. That was where Zuko first said, _I love you, too_.

Now, Zuko keeps his vehicles impersonal. He has the Cadillac and an Audi, and he spends as little time in them as he possibly can. No seat covers, no stickers in the back window. Just here to there. He didn't realize how many of his habits Sokka had permeated until the day he strolled back into his life with a suitcase and a grin.

Sighing, Zuko starts the car, checks his mirrors, and begins driving.

*

Aang and Katara gave him a key to their tiny apartment ages ago, so Zuko just lets himself in, and winds up catching Sokka just sitting strangely still on the couch, knees and elbows folded inward. The posture is incredibly unlike him; he looks very small. He jumps when Zuko opens the door and instinctively manspreads, trying to look casual.

"'Sup," he says.

Zuko tips his chin up minutely in reply.

"They've got a nice place here."

"No, they don't. They barely have room to breathe. I don't know how you're going to live here for a month."

"I'll probably stay at a hotel," says Sokka, dropping the pretense. "My digs back east aren't super spacious or anything, but this is downright claustrophobic. Do you stay over often?"

"Rarely. There was a summer storm last night, so I just slept here."

"Thought so," says Sokka. "Couch smells like you."

Fuck if that doesn't make both of them redden immediately. Zuko coughs, and Sokka swallows audibly, stroking his hair behind his ear. It's a new gesture, one that Zuko likes. He distracts himself by studying Sokka's suitcase, still packed, and the framed photo that he's pulled from the wall and into his lap.

It's the newspaper article from the opening of his uncle's tea shop. In it, Uncle Iroh stands under the Jasmine Dragon signage with one arm slung over Aang's shoulders, the other over Zuko's. All three of them are grinning. It's one of the few photographs that has captured Zuko smiling without reticence, and Zuko hates it, but Aang insisted on christening the apartment with both it and the professional headshot Zuko had to take for work. That one's still on the wall. Sokka's staring at it now, his expression weirdly vulnerable.

"You look sad in that one," he says.

"Gee, I wonder why," says Zuko.

Sokka grows annoyed. "Oh, please. You look like you were about twenty-one in that. It can't've had anything to do with me."

"You certainly didn't help."

"Well, I'm sorry you couldn't get over a gross seventeen-year-old brat who made some hasty promises in high school."

"Don't you dare trivialize yourself, or what we had together!" Zuko bellows. "I fucking loved you!"

"I loved you too!" Sokka shouts back. "You don't have a monopoly on that, or on the pain that came afterward!"

One of the neighbors pounds on the wall so hard that all the pictures rattle. Sokka shrinks back, chastened, and Zuko grits his teeth until his jaw aches. The two of them stare at each other, breathless. Zuko simultaneously wants to flee, stride up to Sokka, and kiss him until their mouths are bruised. But he does nothing. He clenches his fists, practicing the breathing exercises Uncle Iroh taught him, and tries to will away his furious tears.

At last, Sokka says, "I can't explain. I want to. But I can't."

"I had to come to terms with that without your help once," says Zuko, "so I sure as hell don't need it now."

"Okay," says Sokka. "I—I guess that's what I needed to know."

Sokka climbs to his feet, grabbing his suitcase, and Zuko steps aside to let him reach the front door. He gets the awful, irrevocable sense of something definitively closing somewhere between them, but he doesn't know how to stop it. Doesn't know if he even wants to.

Side-by-side, Sokka's thinner than him, taller by a few inches. He leans in so his lips are close to Zuko's uninjured ear and says, so quietly that he barely hears him, "I'm sorry, baby."

Zuko doesn't reply, and Sokka leaves, disappearing once more into the withering June heat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings! This is a dark chapter. Thank you all for the incredible support!

Zuko's apartment is downtown in a building called the Royal Plaza. He shares the penthouse suite with Azula, who he's seen maybe four times in the last few months—she eats, sleeps, and presumably showers at the main office—so the place is nice and quiet when Zuko returns home, throws himself face down onto his bed, and screams into a pillow. When he finally surfaces, his phone is vibrating in his front pocket. He forgot to charge it last night at Aang's. The low battery warning beeps at him as he picks up.

"I might lose you any second," he warns in advance.

"You lost me years ago, Zuko," says Mai in her silky, ironic voice. "Do you have the voltage drop analyses for Kaja?"

"I'm working at the teahouse again. Didn't my sister tell you?"

"Azula and I are not precisely talking these days. She's quite the tyrant when she feels her power systems engineers aren't pulling their weight. She literally flipped a table yesterday. I suggested she run a dynamic stability assessment—on herself."

"You are a legend, Mai," says Zuko. He means it. The two of them had a falling out in early high school following a messy breakup, but after graduation, as nineteen-year-old Zuko vomited illegally-purchased Fireball shots in the alleyway of a shitty bar, Mai's steady hand appeared on his back. She drove him to her apartment that night and tucked him into her own bed to sleep it off. Since then, Zuko has worked hard to deserve her calm, decisive loyalty. "I'm sorry about the evals. I thought you knew."

"It's fine; we still have time to finish them. How are you?"

"Why do you ask?" Zuko asks, stalling.

But Mai's nothing if not a straight-shooter: "You have to testify in thirteen days. Do you know what you're going to say?"

"Mai, I told you, he was with me almost all evening. We went over the transmission maps, then talked for an hour or so before I went home. He's an excellent father, and an even better man. There's no way he did it."

"So you're going to lie," Mai says.

Zuko flares up. "No! For the first time in my life, I'm going to be a proper son!"

Her voice hardens. "Zuko, _you_ were never the problem."

"There _is_ no problem! Fuck!" Zuko buries his face under his pillow again and makes furious, hurt noises that don't even sound like him. God, he is so close to completely losing it. This bullshit with his father, then the pressure of Aang's wedding, and now Sokka is back in the picture with his beautiful, distant smile and that fucking apology, so bitterly late, whatever it meant for the two of them—

By the time Zuko's done, his throat hurts, and his eyes are burning. He sits up, feeling small and ridiculous and impotent. He returns the phone to his ear without speaking, but Mai knows. She always knows.

"I'm here for you, Zuko," she says. "You can talk to me about anything, all right?"

"Sure," Zuko says, voice husky.

"I'd like you to say it for me."

"I can talk to you about anything. Mai—"

His phone dies with a final beep. He stares at the blank screen for a moment, feeling weird and hollow, then plugs it in by his bedside table and stands up. He needs a shower.

Under the curtain of hot water, Zuko tries to scrub the day off of himself, but he keeps returning to it. He'd call Mai back, but that's the worst part, isn't it? He doesn't have the words. He spent so long in silence that anything he could have said, any closure he could have acquired—it all just shriveled up and died on his lips beside Sokka's very name. Mai knows that there was a breakup, and she suspects it was a boy, but that's all. Zuko himself insisted on transferring out of their insular private academy and going to a public school where no one knew he was Ozai's son. And that avoidance became his life. Only after he and Sokka agreed to marry did Zuko introduce him to his father, who arrived at the lake shortly after they dragged the little boat back to shore.

He still remembers Sokka's sweet, oblivious informality that day: _Oh, hey! You raised a good one, sir! Maybe someday I could take him off your hands?_ Sokka hadn't realized Zuko's father owned the entire property until a chauffeur was driving the three of them back to the summer estate. His abrupt silence was endearing until the instant Zuko's father left the dining hall, and Sokka blew up.

_Dude, you let me make a gigantic ass out of myself in front of your dad! You're fucking loaded, aren't you?_

_Was the luxury car not a tip-off?_ Zuko asked, honestly surprised.

 _I thought you were just spoiled! I didn't know you were the sole heir to a business tycoon's multi-billion-dollar fortune! I'm not—I'm just_ me, _Zuko! There is nothing I can offer you that you could possibly want!_

 _I want_ you, _idiot!_ Zuko insisted, and kissed him as hard as he could. He'll never forget that moment, standing there by the sixty-thousand-dollar eight-seat banquet table: an entire forest at his fingertips, more money than he could spend in a hundred lifetimes, and all he wanted was to sit with Sokka on the back patio and inch close enough that they could touch hands.

They completed sex for the first time that evening. In his childhood holiday home, Zuko rode Sokka's cock until he saw stars, and after they'd recovered, he slipped delicately inside of Sokka and held him there, chest-to-back. They drowsed on and off like that until the sunrise stirred Zuko, as always, like a pat on the shoulder. Zuko kissed Sokka awake, and Sokka looked at him with such wonder and love and disbelief every time their mouths parted. To this day, that morning was the most aroused Zuko has ever been.

In the shower now, Zuko ignores his hardening length. He washes his hair quickly, soaps up his body, rinses. He touches himself rarely, and never without shame. He towels off and climbs into clean pajamas.

It's too early to go to sleep, but he crawls into bed anyway, booting up his charged phone and bringing it with him under the covers. He has text messages.

 **Mai:** I can only assume you were going to say, "Mai, you are a goddess, and I am wholly unworthy of your counsel."  
**Mai:** I'm sorry for what I implied about your father.  
**Mai:** Take care of yourself, Zuko.

 **Aang:** this baby looks like a little uncle iroh!!!  
**Aang:** (image attached)  
**Aang:** dinner tomorrow @6, whaletail? sokkas gonna be there. you dont HAVE to come, but itd be nice to know that my groomsmen can share a table without throwin hands lol  
**Aang:** youre probably feeling pretty messed up so call me if you need to. i love you xx

 **Uncle Iroh:** A man who makes a mistake on an elevator is wrong on many levels!

 **Unknown sender:** He still loves you, you know.

Zuko stares at the screen. Blinks. Reads it again.

 _He still loves you_.

Zuko's patience snaps. _Who the fuck is this?_ he texts back, pressing his thumbs to the screen so hard that they ache, then slaps his phone back onto the bedside table and pulls his blankets up over his head. He doesn't have time for this shit.

Thirteen goddamn days.

He needs to be concentrating on what matters.

*

He and his father didn't agree to meet this week, but Zuko shows up to the Boiling Rock the following afternoon wearing dark aviators and a baseball cap. The federal prison is a concrete-faced building sixteen miles off the main road, nestled in the hottest part of the state. Sky and dust. Bare land and barbed wire. Zuko stands in the sun for a bracing minute before entering, holding only his wallet, keys, and two quarters for a locker. He takes off his shoes and displays the bottoms of his feet for the security guard, shows him under his tongue. Then he asks to see Mai's uncle.

"The warden is a busy man," says the guard, unimpressed.

"So's his favorite inmate," Zuko replies, raising his sunglasses briefly.

The guard startles and does this weird half-bow thing. "Zuko! I-I wasn't expecting you today! It'll just be one moment," he promises, and disappears quickly through the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor.

Zuko doesn't bother to sit down. He stands with his head tilted away from the security cameras, and checks his text messages. Nothing new from the unknown number. Maybe it was just a timely misfire or something. He does reply to Aang, though: _I can do dinner. I'll behave if Sokka does._

Aang replies almost instantly with a thumbs up and a huge blue heart.

Fuck, Zuko loves the kid. Surely he can make it through one meal with Sokka, if only for Aang and Katara's sake. He pockets his phone again and waits.

True to the guard's word, the warden himself appears shortly.

Mai's uncle is a stern-faced gentleman, hard around the edges, but not impermeable: the allowances he makes for Zuko and his father aren't motivated by bribes. He genuinely wants to grant them extra time together. Zuko's father isn't going to be found guilty—he's too wealthy and too powerful; there is simply no question that he is going to walk, unless they receive some incredibly damning testimony—but the warden deeply values family, if his anger with Zuko over his breakup with Mai was any indication. She's forgiven him, though, and so has he, and he greets Zuko with careful warmth as he emerges down the hallway to take him to his father.

"Are you well, Zuko?"

"Fine," says Zuko. "I would like to see him somewhere private, please."

"Since you're here outside of visiting hours," a subtle note of scolding, "the room will be empty. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No. Thank you."

"Your manners have improved," says the warden, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a small smirk. "Perhaps my Mai did have a gentling effect on you."

"Mm," Zuko says noncommittally, because Mai once flung him over a countertop when he tried to walk on her freshly-mopped floor with shoes on. He wishes she were here. Wherever Aang's optimism loses its reach, Mai is there with temperance, poise, and dry wit. He could really use her stability. He follows her uncle into the visitor area, which is devoid of other inmates, as he planned.

"It will be ten minutes," says the warden.

It takes significantly longer than that, maybe twenty or twenty-five, but Zuko remains standing by his chair until the warden brings his father, uncuffed, into the visitation room.

Even in his orange prison jumpsuit, the sight of him makes Zuko's heart pound with wild terror and awe.

"Father," says Zuko, removing his aviators.

"Zuko," says his father. "A pleasant surprise." To the warden: "Thank you."

They're not supposed to be left alone, but the warden exits anyway. Through the glass panels in the doors, they see him turn around and fold his hands behind his back, barring anyone else's entry. Zuko's father sits down, and gestures for Zuko to do the same. Zuko does, legs shaking.

"I've missed you," says his father.

Zuko swallows hard. "I've missed you too."

"To what do I owe this visit?"

"I just wanted to see you," Zuko says.

"Zuko," he says. He reaches to squeeze Zuko's hand. The contact sets Zuko's nerves alight, and he thinks, _Let go let go let go_ at the same time as, _Please hold me forever_. Then he pulls back, and Zuko lets out a small breath as his father studies him and says, voice cool again, "You look troubled."

"I'm just tired."

"Your sister visited me yesterday."

"Did she? We haven't seen each other recently. I'm, um—I'm at the teahouse for now. It's not permanent or anything, but Azula wanted to handle all of the regional assessments herself. I thought it best not to get in her way."

"That is wise," says his father.

Zuko waits for the barb—something along the lines of Azula always having been a better fit for the company, a harder worker, a smoother talker—but it never comes. Zuko does not relax. He's been burned enough times, so to speak, to know that only the threat of losing his very freedom would be enough to convince his father to hold his tongue regarding Zuko's lack of business acumen. The implicit insult makes Zuko redden. He changes the subject.

"Father, I'd like some further guidance about what to say during the hearing."

His voice hardens. "Zuko, we've already discussed this."

"I know I'm not technically your alibi. I know I'm just a character witness. But I want to do whatever I can to maximize my efficacy," Zuko says, and his voice barely trembles.

His father considers that for a moment. He is an attractive, controlled man, handsome even here, where his hair is still groomed, his facial hair just as well-managed. There is no doubt that he is receiving tremendous special treatment. It was a miracle he was even brought in and denied bail. His arrest stunned the media because everyone assumed he was above the law—was the law _itself_ —but there is no way he will be convicted, and Zuko, selfish and scared and full of dark, complicated yearning, just needs to know that he played his part flawlessly.

Because if he does, he will be rewarded.

Because if he doesn't, there will be consequences.

"Be honest, Zuko," says his father at last. "Tell them exactly what kind of man you think I am." Softer, more dangerously: "Tell them that you love me."

"I will," Zuko says. "I do, father. I love you."

"I know you do."

His father reaches up with one hand and runs his thumb gently between Zuko's lips, applying light pressure until Zuko parts his teeth. He traces his tongue, then the inside of one cheek, caressing. Zuko closes his stinging eyes.

"Make me proud, son," his father says tenderly.

The door clatters, and he withdraws his hand without haste. Zuko chases after it instinctively for a moment, disoriented by its loss, then blinks his eyes open. The light feels like it has changed in the last instant. Gotten starker, somehow. Zuko sits back, heart pounding in his throat.

"Count is coming up," says the warden. His voice is strange. "You should be there for it, Ozai."

"Thank you." His father stands up, the motion smooth and elegant. He does not look at Zuko again as he exits the room. "Goodbye, Zuko."

"Goodbye," says Zuko faintly.

The warden passes him off to another guard as he directs him back down that long, echoing corridor. Zuko can hear his father's footsteps clear up until the moment he reaches the opposite building and the doors swing shut behind him. Zuko stands, legs still wobbly, and sees something in the warden's expression—something like terrible, abrupt understanding. He opens his mouth.

"The fuck you looking at," Zuko snaps, and shoves past him on his way out of the room, out of the prison, and into the sweltering, empty desert that surrounds it.

*

Whaletail is a small vegan restaurant near Aang's final foster home. Zuko arrives twenty minutes late, but Aang and Katara have saved him a place and ordered the fried seitan appetizer he likes. Their warm, smiling faces are almost enough to wipe away the afternoon—but then he sees Sokka in the chair beside Katara, flushed and beautiful and not looking at him, and his anxiety spikes again.

"Sit down," Katara urges gently, because he's been standing there for who knows how long, scowling.

Zuko steels himself and sits.

"Rough day?" asks Aang, patting his hand.

"Kind of," says Zuko.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Maybe after a drink or three."

Aang summons a member of the waitstaff with a polite wave. "Coming right up!"

They're known here, and Ty Lee is their waitress today. Zuko likes her because he knows she's not friendly just for Zuko's exorbitant tips—the two of them used to work together with Azula and Mai at the firm before Ty Lee disowned herself to perform chi and chakra readings with her girlfriend's holistic wellness clinic. The business has since gone under, and so has the relationship, but Ty Lee is healthier and kinder than ever. She and Katara have become fast friends. She lays one casual hand on Sokka's shoulder as she steps up between the siblings to take orders.

"Hi, Zuko! Aang already put in your usual, but you look like you could use an old-fashioned. I'll go make that for you."

"Thank you, Ty Lee."

"And did you need anything else, Sokka?" Ty Lee asks, her voice growing flirtatious.

"Doing fine, thanks," Sokka says—and does he sound receptive, or is Zuko just imagining it? When their eyes finally meet, Zuko can see that he's already a couple drinks in himself. He looks like he wants to try to smile at Zuko, but he's suppressing it. The dark pink Polo he's wearing brings out the rose in his lips and cheeks.

"I just can't believe Katara had a brother this cute and didn't tell me," Ty Lee says. She gives Sokka's shoulder a final squeeze, then begins skipping back off to the kitchens. "Drinks soon, Fire Lord Zuko!"

Zuko winces at the nickname. The story about him barfing up Fireball got around thanks to his sister, and since it's already stuck for four years, he doesn't imagine he'll be hearing the end of it anytime soon. Not everything has been about Sokka since his disappearance, but that particular night of binge drinking absolutely was. Zuko busies himself with a menu, even though Aang already ordered for him.

"Fire Lord?" asks Sokka, sounding incredulous.

"Yeah. It's just. Yeah."

"There a story behind that?"

From the defensive set of Sokka's jaw, Zuko realizes that Sokka thinks it's a reference to his scarring. He hastens to explain: "Oh, no, it's not about—it's not in inordinately poor taste or anything. It has to do with something that happened when I was nineteen."

"Oh, okay. Cool," says Sokka, relaxing.

His protectiveness touches Zuko, and of course, that immediately angers him. "You don't have to watch out for me around my own friends, you know."

"Yeah. Sorry," says Sokka simply, which defuses the situation. Then, after a short silence, he adds, "It just occurred to me that they could've been my friends too, if I'd stuck around. Heh."

A tipsy Sokka is forthright and vulnerable, then? Zuko doesn't know what to do with this information. They've never gotten drunk together before. It was one of many experiences with Sokka that Zuko feels robbed of—first bout of underage drinking, first time skydiving (he went with Aang last summer), first time running a lemonade stand (with Katara, for a work fundraiser). Just casual things that Zuko thought he'd do with Sokka by his side. It's not like they're old or anything, but there's a lot of lonely space between them.

The thought makes Zuko ache a little.

"Oh, don't worry, you'll be meeting everyone in the next few weeks," says Katara, bumping Sokka's elbow with her own. "I'm putting you to work handling all of the boring stuff—final catering counts, registries, confirming vendors and times, breaking in my shoes—"

That cracks Sokka up, as intended. "I look great in strap heels."

"Joke's on you," says Katara. "I'm wearing sequined flip-flops."

"Really?"

"Well, that was the plan, but this wedding got really big really fast. Now I think it necessitates a little more formality than we originally banked on."

She sounds rueful, and Aang picks up on it at once: "If there's anything you want to change, anything at all, just say the word and I'll fix it!"

"You're sweet," Katara says, smiling, "but it's going to be wonderful."

"It is," Zuko agrees. "We'll make sure of it."

"You make it sound like a threat," Sokka teases.

"It is," says Zuko again, and means it. He's going to do everything within his power to make sure that Aang and Katara have the most beautiful day of their lives, even if it means having to work with Sokka. It's a good sign, he thinks, that perhaps his care for his friends is winning out over his resentment about his past. _Open your air chakra_ , Ty Lee would say, if she were to give him a reading now. _Let love win_.

Which sounds like a great idea up until Aang says, later in the meal, "So what did you do today?"

Zuko feels something close in his heart like a cage door swinging shut. He feels suddenly cold, almost ill. "Nothing of note," he says.

"You didn't show up to your shift today."

"I was scheduled? Fuck!"

"It's okay," says Aang. "I'm getting good at not burning the quiches, and Uncle Iroh said you were probably visiting your father or something."

Arguing against Aang's cheerful, unsuspicious comment would make more of a scene than just telling the truth, so Zuko confesses, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I was. He's doing great." But that was a little too jaunty.

"Doing great—in prison," Katara clarifies.

"He's not _in prison_ , he's just being held there," Zuko snaps nonsensically.

There's a clatter as Sokka lets his silverware drop. "Your father was arrested?" he demands. "On what charges?" His voice is very weird and quiet.

"Murder, but he didn't do it," Zuko says. "I testify at his trial in a few weeks. Now can we change the fucking subject?"

"Of course we can," says Katara, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry I said that."

"I'm the one who brought it up," Aang intercedes loyally.

"Who'd he off?" asks Sokka.

"Sokka!" Aang and Katara cry, but if they're really doing this, they're doing it right. Zuko downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and smacks the glass back down on the table.

"They're saying he murdered Zhao, our Chief Strategy Officer, who was leading some cross-functional teams that were producing excellent results. My father has no motive, and he was with me an hour prior."

"Doing what?" Sokka says.

"Sorting transmission maps," Zuko says, but the lie doesn't roll off his tongue as easily as it had the previous day, with Mai. He'll have to practice that. And he'll have to practice not shaking, because when he looks down at his hands, he sees that they're trembling. The memory of his father's finger in his mouth that afternoon recurs to him in a chilly wave. He stands up. "I need to use the bathroom."

"Do you want me to go with—" Aang begins, but Zuko's gone.

Instead of turning down the hall toward the restrooms, he kicks open the back door and sits down on the curb where the chefs pick up deliveries in the early afternoon. He retches once before his stomach settles. The summer heat is refreshing, and he drinks it in as he takes deep breaths, the city still light and vigorous at seven-thirty. Every time he thinks he can't get any closer to breaking, something pushes him a little further. But he hasn't cracked yet. And he doesn't plan to.

_Make me proud, son._

_I will,_ Zuko thinks fiercely. _I will protect you._

He's repeating that over and over in his head when Sokka steps down beside him, then takes a seat, their knees barely touching. Sweat is already forming at his hairline. He swipes his arm across his forehead.

"Too hot," he says. "You could walk through fire without feeling it. Never forgot that about you."

Zuko doesn't reply. He brings his knees to his chest and props his chin there, squinting up at the sun.

"Sorry I pushed," Sokka says.

"It's fine," says Zuko.

"It's not. But I'm going to do it again. You listening to me?"

Sokka reaches out and tucks a strand of Zuko's hair back from his face, and Zuko surprises himself by not flinching. Something about Sokka's touch was always safe. Even now, he knows that Sokka's not trying to hurt him, and maybe that's what gives him the fortitude to entertain his thoughts.

"I can say this because we're not friends: you're lying about your dad," says Sokka quietly. "And I can say this because we _were_ friends: you have always, always defended him. No matter what it costs you. No matter who it hurts. I never want to ruin the part of you that admires him, because for whatever reason, you've decided that you love him more than you love yourself. But I hate that about you, too. That you can't see who you are without him. You are your own man, Zuko. Maybe someday you'll want to stop standing in his fucking shadow."

Zuko turns to stare at him, and Sokka's looking steadily back, his eyes pale and piercing. They sit there for a moment. Zuko is hyperaware of the space between his own lips, damp and uninvaded. He draws a breath to speak.

Then the door opens again, and Ty Lee leans out.

"There you are," she says. "Aang and Katara are worried. They ordered you the apple oatmeal squares you like."

"Okay, I'm coming," says Zuko, standing. He doesn't reach down to offer Sokka a hand, but he does wait for him to clamber to his feet, liking the extra height the curb gives him. When Ty Lee has disappeared back into the kitchen, he asks Sokka, "What would you say if we _are_ friends?"

Sokka huffs out a laugh. "Guess we'll cross that bridge if we come to it," he mutters.

And at least he didn't have the gall to say 'when.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter. Trigger warning: mention of panic disorder and appropriate medication. Thanks so much for reading!

At fifteen, Zuko abandoned Mai, Sozin's Private Academy for Boys, and seven years of classical viola lessons to learn the tenor drums with the Roku Marching Band. Zuko's father was furious.

"What could you possibly learn from a _public_ school?" he demanded, but it wasn't about learning—it was about crawling into the clear light where he was not Ozai's Son, but himself, Zuko, whoever the hell that turned out to be.

He won drumline captain in the summer preceding eleventh grade, after only a year of marching quads. That was the season he became acutely aware of one of the sophomore trumpet players, not because he was always chattering at parade rest (he was) or because he was an exceptional musician (he wasn't). But he was sharp, and upbeat, and a perfect dressing point for field formations because he steadily hit his marks every time, down to the inch. And he was kind. Achingly beautiful. His name was Sokka, and the day he slipped Zuko a little sidelong smirk during warm-ups, Zuko fumbled a drumstick for the first time in his life. Sokka picked it up and passed it back to him.

"Oh, this has got some heft to it," Sokka said.

"Yeah," said Zuko, not looking at him.

"I like its length, too."

Zuko failed to acknowledge that one at all, and they made it through the rest of the season without interacting substantially. Made semi-finals. Drifted apart for the school year. Zuko went back to orchestra, and Sokka kept himself busy with pep band and soccer, stunning on the field with his toned thighs and white knee-high socks. Zuko won Prom Prince in late May, and thought it was sarcastic commentary about his scar up until the moment he received his classmates' earnest applause and a ridiculous plastic crown. He spent the rest of the night dancing with girl after girl, all of them kind, but none of whom had eyes like Sokka.

On his first day as field commander that following summer, Sokka sidled up to him and said, "Hey, Prince Zuko. I made brass captain. Guess you're stuck with me this year."

"Guess so," Zuko said, heart pounding. Sokka wore a puka shell necklace and a pale blue band shirt, his hair shaved neatly at the sides. He leaned in. Zuko leaned away, flushed. "We're winning state this year, so no slacking off!" he snapped.

"Why stop there? Let's win nationals," Sokka challenged.

"Let's do it," said Zuko.

"Fine."

"Fine!"

Sokka grinned at him then, wide and gorgeous, and slipped back to the practice rooms to run through the year's parade tunes. Zuko watched him go, eyeing the beautiful, solid line of his back, and thought about all the months of sun and music they had ahead of them.

To no one's surprise, Sokka turned out to be an excellent leader. He was charismatic, intelligent, and energetic, with an endless appetite for improvement. The brass section had never sounded better or looked sharper, and even the seniors who were passed over for the position grew to respect his authority. Every time Zuko dropped in on his rehearsals, they were running smoothly, Sokka busy conducting or clapping out rhythms or walking the freshmen through commands with patience and enthusiasm. He was a bright, effective brass captain.

But his true moment came in late July, when they began setting music to their field, and were delivered a drill package that was only half-written.

"He was supposed to have completed the entire show, as per our contract," said Piandao, their band instructor. "I don't know any composers who take on single movements this late in the season, and we already blew our budget on the buses and uniforms. This might mean a lot of fundraising instead of practicing for you kids. How do you feel about bake sales?"

"What's a bake sale?" asked Zuko.

"Oh, Zuko," said Piandao, sighing. "You're so rich."

"Thank you."

"Not a compliment."

But Sokka was preoccupied, clicking through different panels in the software. "I think I could do this," he said quietly.

Zuko turned to him. "What? The drill?"

"Yeah. Can I stay late tonight, Master Piandao?"

"Only if you agree to stop calling me that, and if Zuko stays with you. My drum major is the only student who has permission to lock up."

"I'll be here," said Zuko, and he and Sokka gave Piandao the little bows they knew he hated, and the two of them settled in for their first one-on-one evening together.

That night, every small task made Zuko's pulse quicken. Passing Sokka a pen. Ordering fast food from a local sandwich shop. Tentatively offering Sokka a French fry. Sokka remained startlingly focused as he worked, letting Zuko hand-feed him as he wrote the drill a few phrases at a time, brow handsomely furrowed. They did very little talking, but Zuko stared openly. He memorized Sokka's profile, the way he rested his chin in his hand while thinking. His little huffs when he was confused. The open, excited sounds he made as he figured out a new feature of the software.

Hours after the rest of the school closed down, Sokka leaned back in his chair, removed his earbuds, and raised both fists in triumph.

"Is it finished?" asked Zuko, standing up with the bag of fries in his lap and spilling them all to the carpet.

"Just watch," Sokka said, eyes shining, and pressed the play button. The dots on the screen—each representing a different marcher—began shifting into design after design, as if by magic. Spirals and stripes, constellations, patterns that flowed like water. The drill was markedly more fluid and inventive than the commissioned work before it. Zuko tracked the little mark labeled with Sokka's number as it moved across the field.

"You programmed all this?"

"Yeah. It just—made sense. You can move each person manually, or you can highlight entire lines and manipulate them into different formations. You just have to make sure that you're not forcing one marcher to cover too much ground in a short period of time, and that you hit all the impact points with the music. See here, that's a horn flash, and here's a pressbox, and now we'll move into a—"

Zuko leaned in and kissed Sokka's soft, parted lips, stopping him mid-syllable. He was shaking badly. He pulled back to make eye contact with him, see if it was okay.

"Sokka?"

"Huh? I thought you were—" began Sokka, openly confused. Then: "You know what, who cares," and suddenly Zuko was being hurled into the computer chair, and Sokka was straddling him, and they were making out with such fervor that the next day Zuko nearly fell off the podium when Sokka winked at him, and Sokka's mouth was too swollen to manage a single note on his trumpet.

Piandao never let them occupy a practice room alone again.

Thousands of kisses that school year, though. In Zuko's scorching car, stolen in empty hallways between classes, salty with tears behind the trailer when they won second in state. But there were difficult times, too. Squabbles when Sokka pressed too hard, or Zuko stayed too closed. Lonely winter breaks when Sokka went to visit his dad and sister across the country. There was a tense night in the park in late January when Zuko conveyed his intentions not to introduce Sokka to his father on their six-month anniversary.

"What, I'm not important enough to you?" Sokka asked lightly, trying to pass it off as a joke.

 _It's because you're_ too _important to me_ , thought Zuko, but what came out instead was, "I don't trust you around him."

"Excuse me?"

"I meant I don't trust _him_ around _you."_

"What does that mean?"

But Zuko couldn't answer that. There was a dark mirror in his mind that reflected him back away from those memories whenever he got too close to them. What happened when he was a child. Certain words, hand motions, and the specifics surrounding his scar. Zuko just shook his head, feeling a tremor starting somewhere in his chest, and Sokka gripped him close and stroked his back until he was steady again.

"Hey, it's okay," he said. "You don't have to come out to him if you're not ready."

That was simpler than the truth, and cast Zuko as less ruined. So Zuko nodded his thanks, and Sokka started smiling again, and they made out there at the playground in the cold dusk until a patrolling policeman shooed them away.

That was five and a half years ago. Zuko is twenty-three now, and he still doesn't have words for his relationship with his father—except for the ones he has been rehearsing. _Strong leader. Moral integrity. Incapable of violence._ He stands in front of his mirror this morning, hands tight on the countertop, and says in a firm, clear voice, "I am Ozai's son. I was with him the night of the murder, talking about transmission lines. My father would never hurt anyone. I aspire to become a man like—"

His stomach surges suddenly and violently. He sags over the sink, trying to will away the wave of nausea that grips him. When he finally gets it under control, he's panting, and he doesn't recognize his own pale reflection. Cold sweat drips down his temples.

"I can do this," he tells himself aloud. Then, silently: _I love my father_.

Zuko runs handfuls of hot water and splashes his face with them until it's numb.

After he finishes dressing for work, he checks his email. Teo and Haru have RSVPed for the bachelor party. Pipsqueak says he'll be out of the country, but he sends his regards. Nothing from Jet yet. Zuko records the information in the planner he uses exclusively for Aang's wedding events, and stares at the small square labeled _Sunday - Butterfly Pavilion_.

The following Monday, Zuko is expected in court.

He's thinking about how ridiculous that is, butterflies and juries and the dichotomy of it all, when his phone starts ringing. He blinks down at it before picking up.

"Aang? You never call m—"

"Danger! Danger!" Aang shouts, at top volume.

Zuko has to yank the phone away from his ear, then bring it back, wincing. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah! Sorry. Yeah, but—" Aang's voice drops to a whisper. "Sokka is here, so like—make sure you look good, and don't wear the green shirt."

He glances down at himself. He's wearing his green shirt. "Wh—what's wrong with it? And could he not have found another goddamn tea shop in the entire fucking city?"

"Uncle Iroh invited him," says Aang.

"Wonderful," says Zuko. Whereas Sokka and Zuko's father only interacted briefly near the abrupt end of the relationship, he and Uncle Iroh were better acquainted through band events. Uncle Iroh liked to take the two of them out the night before parades to load up on carbs, and he never missed a show. He and Sokka would even sit together during Zuko's orchestra concerts—which Zuko's father did not attend. "What is that old man playing at?"

"I don't know, but they're laughing together about something now," Aang says. "Oh, Uncle Iroh put his hand on top of Sokka's! Now I think he's doing an impression of you; he's glaring and he's kind of puffing his cheeks out—now he's flexing his chest—"

"I'm on my way," says Zuko, and hangs up.

* 

He makes it to the Jasmine Dragon in record time, parking on the street because the sizable lot is already full. Ever since Uncle Iroh brought boba to the menu, high school kids have been pouring in on weekends, crowding out the older, more traditional clientele. Iroh's already talking about opening up a second, quieter location, and though he hasn't asked yet, Zuko knows that he wants him to manage it. The thought humbles Zuko. He has an electrical engineering degree and an entire floor at his father's headquarters, but his uncle still thinks he's tender enough to brew tea for the neighborhood's grandparents.

Zuko's feeling anything but gentle now, though, as he kicks open the door to a loud bang and the small, comical jingle of the shopkeeper bell. Everyone looks up at him. Aang is cringing behind the counter. Sokka's sitting at a corner table across from Uncle Iroh, who appears to have been in the middle of some hearty anecdote. He waves at Zuko.

"Nephew! Join us!"

"Not on your life," says Zuko. He waits until conversation has slowly picked up around him again, then stalks to the table, pulls Uncle Iroh firmly out of his seat, and steers him toward the back room by the shoulders. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks, when they're out of Sokka's earshot.

"Having tea with your friend Sokka," says Uncle Iroh peaceably. 

"He's not my friend!"

"I'm sorry. 'Partner?'"

"Uncle Iroh!" Zuko yells, feeling himself redden.

Uncle Iroh shushes him, chuckling. "We were just discussing his work. Did you know he still creates maps for marching band performances?"

"It's called 'drill,' and yes, I knew that," says Zuko.

"I remember the show he wrote when you were in twelfth grade. A beautiful display. That was the year you won second in the statewide championship, wasn't it? You were the general."

"Field commander. Uncle—Sokka and I haven't spoken since I was eighteen. You know that. Aang told me you invited him here. What could you two possibly have to talk about?"

"You, of course," says Uncle Iroh, with a candidness that disarms Zuko enough to make him step back. Uncle Iroh tugs his apron straight. "Zuko, that boy misses you terribly. Something drove him away from you, something dreadful that I can't put my finger on, but perhaps you can find it within your heart to forgive him."

"He broke that years ago, along with my trust," Zuko snaps.

Uncle Iroh sighs. "I'm sorry to hear that. I always thought you two made a fine couple, and you still need a date to Aang's wedding, don't you?"

"That's none of your business!"

"Oh, well." Uncle Iroh points to a glass on the counter. "Could you take that to him, please? I need to sit down and rest my old feet."

"Make Aang do it," says Zuko, but as he says it, he sees how swamped Aang is at the register. Jaw clenched, he fights his apron over his head, snatches the cup off the counter, and walks it over to Sokka's table with a napkin.

When he smacks it down beside him, Sokka startles badly, taking out his earbuds. He's got a small, battered laptop open in front of him, the screen running a much sleeker version of the drill-writing software he used to use in high school. God, he looks good. He's wearing a simple blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his hands are graceful, masculine. He smiles up at Zuko, tentative and sheepish.

"Thanks. I'll get going after I finish this," he says.

Zuko tries to eye his display without being overt, but the program is clicking through the measures of a score, and the forms are interesting, dynamic. He stands there watching for a moment. "You've gotten better," he says.

"Thanks?" says Sokka.

"Can I—hear what goes with it?"

Sokka brightens and passes him an earbud. "Hell yeah!"

Zuko tucks it in place and listens. It sounds like a first movement, bold and potent, heavy on the high brass. He watches the X-marks move across the field, forming a serpentine curl.

"Check this out," says Sokka, and hits a button. The aerial view sweeps down to ground-level, and suddenly Zuko's watching little computer-generated marchers instead of just dots. Their legs shift directions as they cross the fifty-yard line. They even have trumpets. Zuko grins in surprise, and Soka beams back at him. "Pretty cool, huh? 

"Nice," Zuko agrees. He passes the earbud back. "How many shows do you do a year?"

"My whole school district's back home, and a few others across the state. Doesn't pay super well, but hey. Doing what I love and all. During the off-season, I just sort mail at the post office."

Zuko realizes he's nodding along and consciously schools his expression into something less interested-looking. "Well, enjoy."

"Wait! Do you—want to sit down?"

"I'm on the clock," Zuko says, and walks away.

Uncle Iroh was bluffing about needing a rest; he's happily whipping up orders as Zuko joins him behind the counter. They've gotten through the rush. Aang smiles at Zuko as he brews a final Ba Sing Quon. "You two looked like you were getting chummy," he says.

"Not even," says Zuko.

"I think he was just waiting for you there. Writing music, knocking back Cactus Juices—"

Zuko pauses. "Does he know those are alcoholic?"

"He must," says Aang. "Right?"

They study Sokka as he absentmindedly takes a gulp from his drink as he works. There do seem to be a lot of empty glasses on his table. As they watch, Uncle Iroh cheerfully brings him another.

"Hmm," says Zuko.

Fifteen minutes later, Sokka is standing in the center of the room, gyrating his hips to the peppy pop rock that is always playing over the shop's speakers. Shit, and he can really move, too, even while he's just screwing around. If they were in a club, Zuko would be mesmerized.

Unfortunately, this is just the Jasmine fucking Dragon, and Sokka's voice is way too loud as he yells, "Aang, let's do this!"

Of course, Aang vaults over the counter without hesitation and joins him, laughing. Zuko stands there and watches the two of them drag the other patrons into a dance party. He whirls on Uncle Iroh. "Aren't you going to do something about this?"

Uncle Iroh is smiling and tapping his foot to the beat. "I would join them, but I don't want to, as you young people say, 'harsh their mellow.'"

"Literally no one says that," says Zuko. He yanks off his apron and throws it on the counter. "I'm done for the day."

"Thank you for your dedicated half hour of work," says Uncle Iroh.

Zuko ignores that, gathers up Sokka's laptop and messenger bag, and shoves into the growing throng until he manages to catch Sokka's wrist and tug him toward the exit. Sokka stumbles along with him willingly, throwing Aang the sign of the horns. Aang returns it, laughing, and goes back to dancing. Zuko glares at him, then pulls Sokka's arm over his shoulders as they push through the front doors.

In the gorgeous, warm summer light, Sokka's eyes look incredibly blue. Zuko pointedly doesn't stare at them as he walks Sokka to his car.

"Where's your hotel?" he asks.

"Left," says Sokka, squinting down the street. "No—right."

"North?"

"Nouth," Sokka says, with conviction.

Zuko sighs, unlocks his car, and deposits Sokka in shotgun. He has to tuck his feet in so he doesn't slam them in the door. He stands outside in the sun for a moment before steeling himself and taking the driver's seat.

The last time the two of them were alone in a vehicle together, they were making out. The realization is not lost on Zuko as he fastens Sokka's seatbelt and begins driving him toward the Royal Plaza.

*

Sokka drank a respectable amount at Whaletail, but he clearly can't hold his Cactus Juice, because he is staggering and singing loudly by the time Zuko helps him into his apartment. He puts Sokka's bag on the counter so he can use both hands to try to drag him toward the bedroom, but Sokka digs his heels in, so Zuko loses his patience and hauls him bodily over his shoulder. He's dense with muscle, but Zuko's strong. As he carries Sokka across the foyer, Sokka says, "This is hot."

Zuko doesn't dignify that with a response. He toes open his bedroom door and drops Sokka onto the bed, then begins the process of removing his shoes. Sokka is squirmy, ticklish. His laughter is full and effervescent.

"Is this your apartment?" he asks, when he catches his breath.

"Yes," says Zuko. He pulls a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge and sets it on the bedside table.

Sokka's voice drops to a whisper. "Is this—your _bed?"_

"So what?" Zuko says, suddenly and inexplicably defensive.

"It's nice," says Sokka. To Zuko's chagrin, he pulls a pillow against his face and inhales deeply. Zuko snatches it out of his hands.

"Don't do that!"

"You smell so good," Sokka murmurs.

Zuko just stands there staring at him for a moment, not sure what to do. Seeing Sokka in his bed is surreal and actually a little—arousing. Heat grips Zuko's stomach. He groans and runs both hands down his face, watching Sokka gather his blankets to his chest and squeeze them close. His expression grows soft, restful. He smiles with his eyes shut.

"Cuddle with me," he says.

"Absolutely not," says Zuko.

Sokka rolls over. "Can you get me my laptop?"

"Fine."

Zuko carries Sokka's shoes back to the front door, sets them on the mat, and opens up his messenger bag. He pulls out the laptop with a bit too much force, and some of the items spill free—a pack of gum, a wallet—and an orange bottle of prescription medication.

He stares at it for a long time, sitting there very small and bright on the tile. _Don't,_ he tells himself firmly. But in the end, his curiosity wins out, and he picks it up and studies the label.

 _CLONAZEPAM_ , it reads. _TAKE 1 TABLET BY MOUTH AS NEEDED. 1 MG TAB._

Zuko frowns. It's an anti-seizure medication that he knows Azula takes daily for panic disorder; she keeps her meds on the kitchen countertop whenever she's home, open about her conditions. It's not meant to be taken with alcohol, as it can increase dizziness.

Each tiny green pill seems to get heavier the longer Zuko holds the bottle. He tucks it back into the bag, feeling guilty and confused.

It's been half a decade since Sokka was a carefree seventeen-year-old, and Zuko knows better than anyone how much can change in that time, but he always thought something about Sokka was—inviolate. Like he'd be healthy and happy forever, because he was just so bright, giving, and kind. But that's not how illness works. Zuko hates that Sokka has difficulties with his health, and feels, irrationally, like he himself wished that struggle upon him. Certainly he has had some ugly thoughts about him since their estrangement. It's not Zuko's fault, though, any more than it is Sokka's. These things just happen to people. Even the good ones.

Subdued, Zuko takes Sokka's laptop to him in the bedroom. He half-expected him to be asleep, but Sokka is waiting patiently for him, smiling with equal parts warmth and grogginess. He beckons Zuko onto the bed beside him, and after a moment of hesitation, Zuko joins him.

"I arrange music now, too," says Sokka, opening the media player on his laptop. "To go with the drill packs. This one was for you. It's from Stravinsky's Firebird Suite."

"What do you mean, for me?" asks Zuko, but Sokka is already pressing play.

Zuko knows the piece, of course, and does not expect to be flattered by the dedication—it's a harsh composition, aggressive and driving—but Sokka's arrangement begins with the French horn solo, masterfully adapted to the euphonium, and there's a longing to it that makes Zuko sit back, eyes closed. He listens, trying to manage the complicated feelings inside of himself that unfold along with the melody.

By the time it reaches its final crescendo, Sokka is snoring quietly.

He looks so young in sleep. Zuko stares at him with deep, reluctant affection, then sets the laptop aside and climbs off the bed. They're not the kids they used to be, Zuko thinks, spreading a spare blanket over Sokka. And he'll never be as clean and real as he was when they were together.

_I hate that I never stopped loving you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending of [The Firebird Suite](https://youtu.be/kd1xYKGnOEw?t=517).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for the wonderful support. It means the world to me, and getting to hear your thoughts and theories keeps me going. Warnings this chapter for mentions of past abuse and allusions to incest. Sorry it's a shorter, talkier one.
> 
> I also retconned a few minor details because I figured out a better path for them! Apologies if you notice those continuity errors; I'm doing my best to catch them all.
> 
> Hope you have a wonderful day.

Sokka sleeps for nine hours. _Nine hours_.

It can't all be the Cactus Juices. They pack an unexpected punch, but Sokka has to have already been exhausted to crash for so long without stirring, not even to drink the water Zuko left out for him. He checks in on him every hour to readjust his blanket. Sokka keeps kicking it off, but he's chilly to the touch (Zuko presses the backs of his fingers delicately to Sokka's cheek and doesn't stroke; doesn't linger). Sokka sniffles in his sleep, sighs. His handsome face is creased with distress. Zuko wonders what he's dreaming about.

Katara calls somewhere around the seven-and-a-half hour mark as Zuko is writing an email to their florist. "Know anything about the dance marathon that's apparently been going on at the Jasmine Dragon all shift?" she asks. "I went to pick Aang up at work. Smelled like a gym in there. He said my brother went home with you."

"Yeah." Zuko hesitates. "Do you know where his hotel is? I'd like to collect his luggage. He can stay with me until the wedding."

"Really?" asks Katara, incredulous. "You'd be okay with that?"

"Azula's rarely home, and the place is big enough that we wouldn't have to see each other often. There's no point in him wasting money when I've got so much room here."

Katara pauses. "That's incredibly gracious of you, Zuko."

"It's no problem."

"I find that difficult to believe. If you'll pardon my saying so, it's clear that you two still care for each other in a lot of really tricky ways. I don't want either of you to experience any additional stress, especially with all that you have going on these days."

"Thanks, Katara, but I'm fine."

"If you're sure."

They sit in silence for a bit. Zuko chews his lower lip. He would readily call Katara one of his closest friends, and he's sure that she would reciprocate, but there has always been a measure of caution between them—perhaps because they both care about Aang so deeply, and their potential to hurt him is therefore substantial. Not that either of them would, but you watch out for your loved ones, Zuko knows. You make sure that they're safe.

He glances down the hall toward his bedroom door, which is still shut. He itches to check on Sokka again.

"I want you to know something personal about my brother," says Katara at last. "I hope I won't regret telling you this, and that you won't, um—misuse the information somehow."

Zuko pauses. If he were a less selfish person, he might stop her, but he wants to know what she's going to say. "I won't."

"Okay. You know how I told you something was wrong with Sokka when he came to live with us?"

"I remember."

"Well, Dad tried to get him help. He found him a therapist, but that didn't last long, and Sokka started acting up. Staying out late, smoking cigarettes, drinking. He barely passed his senior year. Things came to a head when he started going out with this forty-something-year-old, real scumbag, and the guy got drunk and hit him so hard he fractured a cheekbone. I drove him to the hospital on my learner's permit that night. He wanted to hide it from Dad, but of course he found out. Sokka was grounded for ages. We were all so, so worried about him."

"Why are you telling me this?" Zuko demands, even as he aches for more information. _Sokka_. Until recently, Zuko hadn't cared at all about what happened to him after he left, but hearing this makes him feel sick and callous.

"I guess I just need you to know that he was really hurting," says Katara. "That you weren't nothing to him. And—I was hoping you could find out what happened to him back then."

Zuko, quiet and contemplative, balks hard at the request. "You want _me_ to get you those answers."

"Yes," says Katara, unyielding. "I know it's a lot to ask, but—"

"Fucking right it is!"

"You're the only one he'll open up to!"

He laughs. It's a strange, bitter sound. "With his track record, he'll evaporate from the face of the fucking planet if I so much as ask him what his favorite color is."

"Gold," Katara says.

"What?" says Zuko.

"His favorite color. It's gold. Because of your eyes."

Zuko sits back in his chair, blindsided. His throat hurts. He tries to swallow, but something stays caught in it.

Katara sighs. "Sokka and I grew up together here. It was only after middle school that Dad was permanently assigned to a base, and I moved in with him so I could swim on a nationally-ranked team. In so many ways, I regret that, because it meant that I didn't get to see Sokka before something damaged him. Christmas break of my sophomore year and the beginning of my junior year were like day and night. When Sokka came to us, he was terrified and hurt." Her voice takes on a hard edge. "And if I find out you had anything to do with it—"

"You know I didn't," Zuko insists.

"I love you, Zuko, but I don't have your side of the story. You only ever talked to Aang about it, and even then, he says you were vague."

She's right, and now that she mentions it, Zuko realizes what an awful oversight it was not to confide in her. Katara is one of his dearest friends. She has earned his trust.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"For starters," Katara says, softening, "when did you realize you loved my brother?"

So for the next hour, Zuko tells her everything she wants to know about Sokka. The first time their eyes met. The first time they kissed. The way Zuko knew by heart where Sokka was on the marching field at any given note. He details the proposal on the lake at his father's summerhouse, the kisses that tasted of clear lake water, but also of Sokka, and a whole future that he thought they were going to share with each other.

He tells her, inexplicitly, that they made love that night.

"And that was the end of June," says Katara gently. "What happened next?"

"It's sort of a blur," he says, articulating for the first time the interim between the best day of his life and the worst. "We didn't go pick out rings or anything grand, but there were no warning signs, either. He went back to band practice. I started work at the firm. We went to dinner together almost every night, a few times at my father's, and spent the rest of our time in my car, like usual. Talking or kissing or driving."

"Driving where?"

"Just around the city. Never mattered. Scenic outlooks, movie theaters." His cheeks burn at the memory. "Parking lots."

"You didn't spend much time at our aunt's house?"

"No. I only met her once or twice."

"That makes sense. They weren't close. We were just sort of foisted upon her; I think she resented us a little bit for it. Did she approve of you and Sokka?"

"She didn't know about us."

There's a careful beat of silence. "Were you out, Zuko?" Katara asks.

Zuko feels suddenly cold. "No. Only to my father and sister and old band director, who found out about us by accident. Do you think that was why he left me? Because I didn't act—proud of him?"

"No," says Katara, with no uncertainty. "Dad was a master chief petty officer back then. He wasn't the CEO of the nation's leading electrical engineering consultant firm, but the military comes with baggage, too. Sokka would never begrudge you your discretion."

"What about on his side, Katara?" Zuko asks, voice bobbing. "When he came to live with you, what did he say about me?"

For a long moment, Katara doesn't speak. Then she says, "He said the color gold reminded him of someone's eyes. Besides that? Nothing."

"Nothing," Zuko echoes hollowly. He knew the answer; he doesn't know why he asked.

"I'm sorry, Zuko."

His eyes burn with furious tears. It's not _fair._ Sokka was his whole goddamn life, but he hadn't even said goodbye—Zuko had to find out from Piandao that he'd transferred schools after missing two days of practice without notice. It didn't feel real until Zuko found Sokka's locker open and empty in the hallway where they'd once sneaked kisses. _He's gone_ , Zuko remembers thinking, sliding down the wall to the carpet, head in his hands. _He's fucking gone._

"Hold on," says Katara suddenly. "There _was_ something."

Zuko waits, fighting the hope that rises in his chest.

"It was in the hospital the night that bastard hit him. We were sitting together in an exam room, and the doctor was calling our dad. Sokka was such a mess. His eye was swollen shut and he was crying and he was really, really drunk. He said that he was a coward. That he'd given up the best thing he'd ever had."

"And how do you know it was me?" Zuko scoffs.

"Because he touched his heart when he said it," says Katara.

That breaks Zuko. A sob escapes him, then another, then he's shoving away from the table so he can go outside onto the private deck to catch his breath. Staring out across the downtown skyline, he wonders where he'd be if Sokka had never left him. Which apartment they might occupy together in the endless sea of city lights.

"Zuko," says Katara, "never doubt that you are loved. Promise me."

He can't reply to that. He hurts too badly. It's too fucking complicated. _I love you, Sokka_ , he said ages ago, in a summer-hot car. _I love you, Aang_ , drunk off of White Russians, arm draped bonelessly around his best friend's shoulders.

 _I love you._ Mouth propped open, a foreign tongue twining between his teeth, shared breath. Eyes stinging. Fingers at his thighs. _I love you so much, Father._

"Hey," says Sokka softly, sliding open the patio door. "You okay?"

Zuko drags his sleeve quickly across his eyes, sitting up straight. God knows he's had enough practice faking it over the years to get himself together at the drop of a hat. "I need to go, Katara," he says in a clear, brisk voice. "Sokka just woke up."

"Tell him I said he's an idiot," Katara says. "I love you, Zuko. Okay?"

"Love you too," Zuko says, and it almost hurts how much it _doesn't_ hurt. So easy to love Katara and Aang, except for the days when he feels too dirty to deserve them. He hangs up and stares at the display of his phone, bright in the evening. He got a few texts while he and Katara were talking. He thumbs through them.

 **Aang** : ripped through both socks dancing today  
**Aang** : (image attached)  
**Aang** : toesies

 **Unknown sender** : He never wanted to leave you.

"Who the fuck?" Zuko sputters.

"What's wrong?" asks Sokka, with such intense concern that Zuko's anger and confusion throb away in lieu of embarrassment. He deletes the text, jams his phone into his front pocket, turns around—and promptly loses his breath.

Sokka has the blanket pulled around his shoulders. His hair is mussed, and his cheeks are flushed. He looks more than a little hungover.

He is so fucking beautiful.

"Your sister says you're an idiot," is what comes out of Zuko's mouth.

"My sister is correct," says Sokka, groaning. He makes as if to take a seat on the outdoor lounger beside Zuko, then hesitates. "Can I join you?"

Zuko makes a be-my-guest gesture.

Sokka sits down. "I feel like ass," he says.

"Did you drink the water?"

"Yeah. Thank you. I'm so sorry for imposing. I'll grab a taxi as soon as I know I'm not gonna hurl." He leans back in the chair, eyes slipping shut. "Why does your uncle serve alcoholic beverages at his tween hotspot teahouse?"

"Why did you drink six of his alcoholic beverages without asking what was in them?" Zuko challenges.

"Because they were extremely tasty," says Sokka. The faintest smear of sun silvers the horizon, and he's perking up in the growing moonlight, as nocturnal as Zuko is diurnal. He sighs. Zuko watches his chest rise and fall beneath the blanket. "Uncle Iroh looks great. I was so honored that he invited me out that I didn't think to ask if I'd run into you. You volunteer there?"

"It's my job," says Zuko. "In theory."

Sokka's eyes open. They're very bright in the darkness, unreadable. "You don't work for your father's company anymore?"

"Only on a contractual basis."

"Why's that?"

Zuko thinks about that. He feels soft and compromised. "I don't know," he says at last. "I felt—sedentary there. Insulated."

"Lonely," Sokka translates.

He turns a glare on him. "No, not lonely!"

"Sometimes I get lonely, too," says Sokka.

 _Well, whose fault is that?_ Zuko wants to snap, but their eyes lock, and the angry moment slips past them. Zuko slumps. He just feels tired. Tired and hurt. Katara's request bites at him, though, and Zuko finds out that he has to know for himself. His fingers make an abortive twitch toward Sokka's hand. He clenches them into a fist instead.

"What happened to you, Sokka?" Zuko asks quietly.

Sokka's expression closes suddenly and entirely. It's like a door slamming shut. "Nothing _happened_ to me," he snaps, fighting with the blanket as he thrashes to his feet. "What a fucking rude thing to say, Zuko!"

"I didn't mean—"

"What did my sister tell you?"

"It's actually none of your business what I discuss with my friends," says Zuko. He's still not mad. Feels strangely calm, in fact. For once, he's not the one who's backed into a corner, and being on the outside means that he can see too clearly Sokka's fear, the tremble in the line of his mouth. Zuko stands up too. He takes a step forward. Sokka steps back fast. "Sokka," he says. "Relax."

If Sokka were Zuko, this is where the conversation would end. He would lash out or flee. Maybe both. But Sokka is Sokka, and the panic bleeds slowly from his posture, replaced with a giddy sort of adrenaline. He laughs shakily.

"Sorry," says Sokka. "Sorry, I just—I get a little combative when I drink."

"No kidding," Zuko says. "I apologize for my phrasing."

"It's chill. You probably didn't mean it how it came out, yeah?"

"Yeah. I just meant—" _what stole you from me? What made you turn into the arms of a man who shattered your cheekbone?_ Zuko firmly swallows back those questions. If he pushes a second time, there's a chance he'll spook Sokka for good, and now more than ever it is clear that something is terribly wrong. Zuko forces his voice to adopt a note of cordiality. "I meant, what have you been up to? Besides work?"

Sokka stares at him for a long time, clearly trying to gauge how much he does or doesn't know, and finally settles into a guarded smile. "Oh. I, um—you really want to hear about that kind of stuff?"

"Sure," Zuko agrees—and realizes that, despite everything, he really does.

"You got an hour or two? Because you know how I can gab."

"There's time."

And maybe they both want to believe that's true. So Sokka sits back down, and they stare at each other for a long, yearning moment, and they slowly begin to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://foyal.tumblr.com/


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls are all here! Warning for graphic panic attacks. Hope you enjoy this Sokka-centric chapter; your support has been incredible!

They chat for a good thirty minutes about Sokka's job at the post office, and Zuko spends all of them imagining him in the summer uniform, high socks, calves showing. Slip of thigh if the neighborhood's lucky. Sokka, oblivious, prattles on about the dogs and kids along his route until talk inevitably turns to Zuko and his departure from the company.

"Didn't you have an entire wing constructed just for your team?" Sokka asks.

"I used it for four years, and now it's workspace for the distribution planning managers. It's not like it's going to waste or anything."

"I just never thought you'd leave. Not in a million years." Sokka is quiet for a long time, eyes full of confusion. When he finally speaks up again, his voice is strained and complicated. "And your—dad's okay with all this?"

"He doesn't own me," Zuko says, with much more composure and conviction than he actually feels. His heart is suddenly pounding. He feels almost sick.

"I'm just saying, whether or not he actually killed the guy, you're about to lie for him on the stand if you're planning on telling anyone that he is a particularly upstanding fella."

Zuko is tired of having this conversation with people who are supposed to be supporting him. "My father is an honorable, brilliant, powerful man. He doesn't own me, but he _made_ me, and I owe him everything. Even if I didn't, when has he ever been anything but kind to you, Sokka? Didn't he take us on that summer? Buy us some nice dinners? There were a few classist remarks here and there, but he wasn't being actively malicious to—Sokka?"

Sokka is fumbling the patio door open, fighting with the blanket that's still around his shoulders. Zuko leans in to help him, and he stumbles into the apartment and beelines for the washroom by the entryway. Zuko follows him. He barely registers Azula standing in the kitchen over a sizzling wok on the stove, watching both of them with interest. Sokka doesn't close the door behind himself, so Zuko kneels beside him as he crouches in front of the toilet and dry-heaves. Tears bead at the corners of his closed eyes. Without overthinking it, Zuko rubs his back in slow, comforting circles.

When Sokka is done retching, he turns to blink up at him.

For just an instant, he looks more than nauseated—he looks terrified. Then he breaks into a shaky, embarrassed smile and struggles to sit up straight. "Sorry," he says. "I really drank way too much."

Zuko isn't buying it. "Sokka, what the fuck? Are you okay?"

"Just queasy." He laughs. "God, your face. Imagine if I had actually puked on your balcony?"

"I don't care about my balcony!" _I care about_ you.

"I'm better now," Sokka says. "Honest. Though I wouldn't mind some more Tylenol and a big glass of—"

Azula nudges the door open with her hip and offers Sokka some painkillers in one hand and a seltzer water in the other. She's put it in a crystal champagne flute for some reason. Zuko absolutely does not understand her sense of humor, but Sokka hoots with laughter and merrily downs both, pinkie out.

"I made stir-fry," she says in her pretty, textured voice.

"You actually cooked?" Zuko says. It's not the greatest way to greet his sister who he hasn't seen in a month, but she is unoffended, clad in a tank top and athletic shorts with her hair pinned up in a neat bun. She looks so much better than she has in ages, relaxed and lucid. No debilitating mania, no hallucinations. Zuko finds himself smiling to see her so healthy. He stands up to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

"Sokka, this is my sister, Azula," he says. "Azula, this is Sokka, Katara's brother and my—" soul. Ex? "Friend."

Sokka's eyes shine at that. He offers his hand to Azula, who takes it and visibly crushes it as she gives it a shake. "Charmed," she says. "I've heard nearly nothing about you, except that you were the bastard responsible for Zuzu's listening to 'Just a Dream' roughly thirty thousand times during his first year of college."

"Zuzu!" repeats Sokka, delighted, somehow clinging to the very worst part of an already unspeakably awful sentence.

"Do I need to defenestrate a bitch?" Azula asks Zuko loyally.

"Not necessary," says Zuko. "Sokka will be staying with us until the wedding."

"I will?" says Sokka, surprised.

Oh yeah. "I mean, if you want to?"

Sokka mulls that over, looking torn. "If you're really sure," he says at last. "The hotel I'm staying at has a not-inconsiderable rodent problem, which I could handle, except that they keep eating the name card mockups I'm trying to send to the printer's."

"I didn't know you were handling that," says Zuko.

He swells a little with pride. "Yeah. Katara says my art has 'a certain puerile charm.'"

"Out of curiosity, do you know what that word means?"

"'Sophisticated?'"

"Um," says Zuko. 

"Come eat," says Azula. "Food's getting cold."

Sokka appears nervous about intruding until he sees that Azula has already set a place for him at the table. She pulls out his chair as she passes—a sign of approval—and heaps his plate full of stir-fry. Zuko sits down beside him. Azula's medications are back in their usual spot on the countertop, and Zuko thinks again about the pills Sokka carries with him now, and the condition it is intended to treat. He wonders if he just witnessed a panic attack. Sokka played it off so seamlessly as alcohol-related nausea that Zuko feels thrown, unsure if he handled the situation appropriately.

Azula leans lightly on Zuko's shoulder as she serves him, and he knows she means it as a gesture of support. The two of them were bitter rivals as children, but they've grown into a sort of tentative respect as a result of shared familial pressures. They were both angry in different ways, but recovery looks the same: love themselves more, and let people in.

"Have you made up with Mai and Ty Lee?" Zuko asks.

"Yes. They staged an intervention of sorts about some of my 'unhealthy behaviors,' and I suppose, as Ty Lee implied, my chi may have gotten a little asymmetric." Her voice is playful, but without ridicule. "You can tell the Avatar that his seating chart is safe again."

"Stop calling him that," says Zuko. "We haven't gamed together in like four years."

"Right, BlueSpirit69."

Zuko's cheeks color, and Sokka laughs. Sokka never did hop on the Guild Wars train; never actually spoke to Aang in the year when their friendships with Zuko overlapped. Eventually he got too busy with work to play, and Aang met Katara. Zuko still can't believe he didn't make the connection between Katara and Sokka. The circumstances are unreal. Serendipitous, in a real kick-in-the-face kind of way.

Or—not. _Friends_ , Zuko had called them, and Sokka had been visibly pleased by that assessment. Maybe this is the beginning of something new and unburdened between them. Maybe it's time to stop wondering about the past, and start looking toward the future.

"So why did you bail on my brother, heartbreaker?" asks Azula.

Sokka and Zuko freeze. "Azula!" Zuko hisses.

"I don't blame you for being too disquieted to ask outright, Zuzu," Azula says, "but you deserve an answer, and I'm not afraid to get it for you. Your disappearing act, Sokka. What motivated it? Cowardice? Disinterest?" She runs a finger along the rim of her glass, making it sing. "Fear?"

"You don't have to answer that," says Zuko, standing up so fast that his chair screeches against the floor.

Sokka raises an arm to stop him. "No, no. It's okay. She's absolutely right. I should—"

His fingers are trembling. They all notice at the same time. Sokka stares at his own hands, startled.

"What's going on?" he asks, with a small, nervous laugh.

"Sokka," Zuko begins, tentatively reaching out, but Azula gets there first.

"Can I touch your back?" she asks.

"Sure," says Sokka, uncertain, and Azula places one steadying hand between his shoulder blades and rubs gently. The tremors have moved into his arms, his jaw. He clenches his teeth together. "I don't know what's happening," he says, voice quavering.

"Let's move somewhere more comfortable," Azula says.

She guides him upright toward the living room, but before they can reach the couches, Sokka's legs give out and he collapses to his knees. His exhales are coming in fast, short bursts. Azula takes his arm and helps him situate himself more comfortably on the floor, then recline when he fails to regain his balance. She cradles his head in her lap with infinite care.

"It's okay, Sokka," she says. "It's okay. You're safe here."

Sokka gulps in a breath. "Sorry," he gasps. "This is—I'm so sorry, Azula— _Zuko_ —"

"Zuko, come hold his hand," Azula says.

Zuko complies quickly, and Sokka clings back hard, bringing Zuko's hand to his mouth and pressing his knuckles to his shaking lips. He squeezes his eyes shut. Again, tears form on his lashes, but this time they're abundant enough to slip down his cheeks. Zuko thumbs them away. His heart feels like it's splitting apart in his chest.

"What's happening to him?" he demands.

"He's having a panic attack," says Azula, voice placid. "He'll be fine. Sokka, let's breathe. In, two, three. Out, two, three. In—"

Gradually, with Azula's help, Sokka gets his respiration under control. The shaking doesn't stop altogether, but it slows, and he nuzzles subconsciously into Zuko's palm as his tears drip onto the hardwood. Zuko strokes his hair back from his face. He wants to get up to fetch his medication, but he's not supposed to know about it, and he doesn't want to leave Sokka for that long. The three of them sit there until Sokka calms. His cheeks redden with embarrassment and distress.

"Sorry," he whispers, eyes still shut.

"I'm sorry for pushing," says Azula.

"It's not your fault. Zuko deserves answers. I just—"

"It's okay," says Zuko. "I don't care anymore."

"Well, you fucking should," Sokka snaps. "What I did to you was unforgivable. I ran out on you, and I never intended to see you again, and—" he sits up so abruptly that Azula and Zuko flinch back, cradling his head in his hands. His voice cracks when he raises it. "God, this is all so _fucked!"_

Azula reaches back in to comfort him again, but Zuko's hands stop inches from Sokka's shoulders. He knew that Sokka didn't plan on coming back, he tells himself. It shouldn't hurt so badly hearing it aloud. But being with him again these past few days has reminded him how much he loved Sokka. _Loves_ Sokka. And how robbed they are of their time together by something Sokka can't even name.

"It's bad," Zuko says, mostly to himself. "I have to assume it's bad. That you wouldn't have left me over something with an easy solution."

"Please don't ask me," Sokka begs. "I can't."

"Just a hint?"

Sokka's voice takes on a hard, desperate edge. "You'll never hear it from me. That's a promise."

"So there's hope, because we all know how good you are at keeping those," says Zuko.

"Zuko," says Azula, touching his arm.

He shakes her off. "Give me your hotel address. I'll get your stuff. I need to take a drive."

Sokka, still shaken, manages to produce the crossroads and a room key, and Zuko tries not to turn around to look at him as he leaves. But he can't help himself. He glances over his shoulder, and Sokka is staring back at him as Azula helps him to his feet, and the moment between them is charged and hurtful and aching before Zuko slams the front door.

*

Instead of going straight to the hotel, he lets himself in at Aang's, and is greeted by a sea of periwinkle chiffon bridesmaid gowns.

"Zuko! Hi!" says Katara, speaking around the sewing pins between her teeth.

"Zuko?" Suki repeats.

"The ol' Fire Lord himself," Toph says. "Hey, is Katara making my dress shorter than everyone else's?"

Zuko studies her hemline, then Yue's, then Suki's. "Yeah, by a good eight inches or so," he says.

Toph punches Katara square in the boob. "I knew it!"

"Ow! Please, Toph, the maid of honor needs something a little visually unique, and you have such pretty knees!"

"Gonna have to take your word on that," Toph says.

"You all look wonderful," says Zuko.

"Oh, you," Suki says, flapping a hand at him, and Yue giggles and curtsies. The four women really are stunning, from pale-haired Yue to Suki's bombshell red lipstick, to Toph's never-before-seen and truly splendid legs, and Katara, who is glorious even in casual clothing. From the looks of it, she's altering the dresses herself instead of calling a seamstress. Zuko frowns.

"Did you want to hire someone to do that for you?" he asks. "You must be busy with other preparations."

"I'm happy to save money where I can," says Katara cheerily.

"I could always chip in, you know."

"I know. Thank you, Zuko, but we're doing fine."

"If you insist." Zuko decides that he is going to try to press some extra cash on Aang the next time they chat. "Did you hear that Azula made up with Mai and Ty Lee?"

"I didn't! That's great news!"

"Darn," says Toph. "I was hoping to get in on that drama."

"Well, there's plenty left where that came from," Zuko mutters. He says it quietly, but Toph has excellent hearing and zero tact.

"Oh yeah! Katara says you have history with her brother? Spill!"

"Toph!" Katara cries. "That's private!"

"Oh, please. You were practically foaming at the mouth to tell us."

Katara turns red and begins sputtering, and while she's fighting for words, Suki glances around, laughs, and says, "Wow. Sixty percent of this room has made out with Sokka."

"Excuse me?" Zuko says blankly.

"Your boy and I were elementary school flames," Suki explains. "I used to pin him down and kiss him after I beat him up in second grade. He'd cry sometimes. It was great. But we parted amicably at the tender age of nine, when I gave him my blessing to pursue Moon Princess over here."

"Fifth grade Valentine's Day Dance," Yue says, smiling. "The theme was 'Under the Stars.' We held hands a few times before I moved to a different district for middle school."

Zuko knows Yue superficially as Katara's coworker at the pool, but Suki he only met recently. He didn't realize she knew Sokka at all. "Why haven't I heard about any of this?"

"He probably doesn't like to talk about his shameful days as a heterosexual," Suki says. "I know I don't."

"Are you and Sokka still friends?"

"Soulmates," she affirms easily. "I'm delighted to have him back in person for the month. It just wasn't the same talking online."

"You—tell each other things?"

"Nearly everything."

There's a loaded pause. Zuko licks his lips and stands very still.

"You asking if I've heard about you?" Suki asks, one eyebrow arched.

Zuko swallows. He manages a small nod.

Her smirk softens into a smile. "Of course," she says quietly. "He talked about you all the damn time. Nice to finally put a face to the name, Prince Zuko."

It's like being struck in the chest. The wind leaves his lungs. _Affirmation_.

"You knew about him back in high school?" Katara asks, astonished.

"Yeah," says Suki, wistful. "Zuko this, Zuko that; Zuko bought me a burrito; Zuko wore a green shirt today—he made me promise not to tell anyone else about you. Not even Katara. He said you weren't out, and that you wanted to keep your relationship quiet, but he couldn't keep it all contained. You don't know how many texts he sent me about you. How many hours he spent talking about the color of your eyes. Zuko, that boy had mad feelings for you. That's one thing you never have to wonder about."

Katara looks floored by this information, and Zuko—Zuko can't even _move;_ it feels that incredible to have someone verify Sokka's feelings for him after all the secrecy, after all the denial. _I was real to him,_ Zuko thinks, struggling to keep his breathing under control. _I was worth talking about_.

"What's he doing?" Toph asks eagerly. "Is he an ugly crier?"

"No, he looks very handsome, even in distress," Yue says.

Toph whistles. "Get it, Sokka."

"So you knew the whole time," Katara marvels. "Why didn't you say anything to me or Dad?"

Suki's voice takes on a firm, cautious note. "It wasn't really your business, was it?"

"It was my 'business' when he came to us in twelfth grade barely speaking or eating. It was my business when I drove him to the hospital at three in the morning after Mongke broke his cheekbone."

"Katara, he talked to me because he knew I wouldn't talk to you. Would you have wanted him to give up his only refuge?"

"If it meant getting him help, then yes!"

"Do you know why he left me?" Zuko blurts out. 

It derails the argument. Katara and Suki blink at him, then Katara's eyes grow sympathetic, subdued. Yue and Toph are watching on in silence, Yue with visible discomfort, Toph with interest. After a moment of hesitation, Suki lays a gentle hand on Zuko's arm.

"That's the one thing I couldn't get out of him, Zuko. He only told me he did what was best for you."

If that's supposed to placate him, it badly backfires. "That's bullshit," Zuko says, stepping away from her. "That's fucking bullshit."

"I'm sorry I can't help you," says Suki.

Zuko wants to leave. He can't go home, so he wants to drive away and sit alone for hours until the static in his head begins to settle. But he's spent so much time running away from his friends, and the prospect of solitude right now is too much to bear. 

Briefly, he thinks of going to see his father.

But that's fucked up, isn't it? Sudden, cold despair courses through Zuko. He moans and rubs at his face, and the girls flock around him immediately, touching his back and offering him tissue. Zuko is just settling into a dangerous, broiling anger when Toph's voice cuts through their consolations:

"Oh, get a fucking grip, Fire Lord."

Zuko stares at her. They all stare at her. "Excuse me?" says Zuko.

"He loved you, right?" Toph says. "I've known about the two of you for all of three minutes, and that much is painfully, _bathetically_ obvious. He was so destroyed by your breakup that he almost self-destructed, and you're mad that he didn't give you, what, an itemized account of his traumas? He 'did what was best for you.' Did you love him enough to take his word on that, or are you too intent on your afflicted, misanthropic man-angst to believe that his depth of feeling for you was as strong and valid as yours was for him?"

"Toph!" Katara gasps, but Zuko feels an abrupt, dawning clarity: he trusted Sokka. Trusted him with his heart, with his life. He thought Sokka broke that confidence by leaving, but what if that was his final gift to him? A sacrifice of proportions so wide and strong and loving that Sokka himself still doesn't have the words for it?

Toph waits with her arms crossed, not apologizing. Zuko has shared a handful of dinners with her, Aang, and Katara, and he's always been quietly awed by her; a young woman sharp-tongued and blunt and attentive beyond her years. He's never been the focus of her criticism, and it honestly fucking hurts. 

It hurts, and it _bolsters._

"Toph," he says, voice hoarse. "I—"

"Oh, please don't thank me," Toph groans. "Unless it's in the form of getting me out of this goddamn dress, and not in the sexy way."

The girls laugh. Yue's beautiful eyes are shining brightly with emotion, and Suki's hands are on her hips, satisfied. Zuko feels in good company with Sokka's childhood sweethearts, compassionate and intelligent women who shaped his lover into the bright, kind person he was when he met Zuko. The two of them were devoted to each other, but they only had a year together. There's so much they never got to say. So much Zuko still wants to know about him.

And that's no longer limited to why Sokka left. It encompasses Sokka's hurt history now, his panic attacks and wounds. _What happened to you?_ Zuko had asked earlier, but was he really ready to listen, or was he only seeking his own closure? 

He closes his eyes, feeling as if a deep poison inside of him is finally dissipating.

Maybe it's time to start thinking about forgiveness.

The door rattles open, and Aang walks in holding a huge paper bag full of Italian takeout, still wearing the visor he wears for his second job stocking shelves at the local supermarket. Zuko hates that he works so hard for twelve dollars an hour while Zuko himself has a salary in the triple digits, but Aang is seemingly inexhaustible, and delighted to find so many people here in his microscopic apartment.

"Katara! Ladies! Zuko!" he yells, as if they hadn't seen each other at the coffee shop that morning. God, has it been a long fucking day.

"Hi," says Zuko. "I was just leaving."

"No! Stay for movies."

"It's eleven o'clock, Aang."

"The night is young. Wow, you all look gorgeous. Love the knees, Toph."

"Fuck yourself, Twinkle Toes."

"It really is time to disband," says Katara, hunting around the living room for her pincushions. "Drinks on Saturday night, girls? Of course Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee are invited, if you want to pass that on, Zuko."

"I will. Thanks."

"Can I come?" asks Aang.

"You should go out with Zuko," Katara urges. "You two haven't spent much time together lately."

Aang considers. "We could go for acai bowls at the Superfruit Republic."

"Sounds like a party," says Katara, gently teasing.

"How about it, Zuko? You, me, a buttload of chia seeds and granola?"

"And Sokka," says Zuko.

Aang wears his surprise on his face for a long, comical moment, then breaks into a grin. "Yeah! That would be wonderful!"

"It's a date," Zuko says, then winces a little at his own wording. He briefly clasps hands with Aang, leans in to give Katara a soft, rare kiss on the cheek, then raises his hand to the women. "Goodbye Yue, Suki, Toph. Thanks. For everything."

"Call me whenever you need a dressing down," says Toph.

"Oh, I will."

Outside, the darkness is complete. Zuko pulls the door shut behind himself and stands on the front mat for a while, eyes closed, feeling the fatigue settle in his bones. Despite his exhaustion, he feels—okay. Purged of something. _Afflicted, misanthropic man-angst_ , Zuko thinks ruefully, in Toph's voice, and then takes a deep breath and heads toward his car. He still has to pick up the suitcase at the hotel, name cards and sheet music. Clothes that smell like Sokka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Please feel free to hit me up at [my Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). No one talks to me there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I did both Zuko and Sokka dirty last chapter in different ways. This one is an attempt to remedy some of that, though it is very, very far from perfect. WARNING for past attempted non-con and incest at the beginning of the chapter. Thank you guys for sticking through the dark parts, and for being so generous and honest with me in your feedback.

When Zuko gets home from the hotel with Sokka's luggage, Sokka is fast asleep on the couch, and Azula's bedroom light is off. Zuko checks his email (no RSVP from Jet) and goes to bed himself.

He dreams of his father.

_Zuko is thirteen. He sits at the corner of the big wood table with the glass top. The chef has prepared all of his favorites—ham and cheese pockets, the cake with the spun sugar dome, homemade pizza. Zuko never gets pizza; his father says it's 'trailer trash food.' But his father is unusual tonight, cordial and relaxed and indulgent, and he even offers Zuko sips of thousand-dollar rum from his own glass._

_"You're turning into a fine young man, aren't you," he says gently._

_Zuko lowers his eyes, shy. His father's attention is like a spotlight, stark and white-hot._

_"A_ very _fine man," his father says._

_After their plates have been cleared, and the two of them are alone, he produces the small rose gold vial with the tiny pearl turtle on top. Zuko's heart pounds. He recognizes it immediately: his mother's perfume. His father opens it, releasing the sweet scents of grapefruit and iris. He forgoes the dropper and uses his thumb to paint the fragrance on the insides of Zuko's wrists, along the crest of his left cheekbone, his temple._

_"You want to be a good son," says his father, and even though it's not a question, Zuko nods rapidly into his father's hand. "You want to obey me, to please me."_

_"Yes, Father," says Zuko._

_He pulls Zuko from his chair and presses his hips flush to the edge of the table, lifting the dark tendrils of his hair so he can kiss the nape of his neck softly, so softly._

_The violence is sudden, vicious: he jams Zuko face down onto the table's shiny, clean surface, and Zuko cries out as his father's hands grasp at his hips with vicelike intent. There's a soft purr of metal teeth as he unfastens his own trousers. Zuko flails, thinking_ no, this isn't happening, none of this is happening _, and as he struggles to be released, one of the crystal candelabras topples over, flames lapping toward him—_

Zuko wakes up, blood trickling from his nose.

"Fuck," he whispers, pinching his nostrils shut. Tears have gathered at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away, furious. "Fuck!" he yells again, the expletive bursting out of him with physical pain, shaking his whole body. He swipes everything off his bedside table. His phone, the lamp, his water bottle, the box of tissue. He doesn't dream about it often, but when he does, he wants to claw out of his own body. Wants to run himself under hot water until all the shame and fear and horror is seared away.

He isn't afraid of fire. The fire was the mercy. The fire made it stop.

Someone knocks on his bedroom door.

"Are you okay in there, Zuko?" asks Azula. Not 'Zuzu.' She is legitimately troubled, and it sobers Zuko, motivates him to start catching his breath.

"Fine," he calls back, panting. "Dropped something."

"Like an anvil?" she asks, but after a hesitant moment, she says, "Sokka's out here."

 _Sokka._ Zuko draws a deep breath and stands up. "Be there in a second," he says, in a much calmer voice.

"Take your time."

He showers first, quickly. Cleans the blood off his face, scrubs the dream right off of him; doesn't think of the perfume or the glass table or his father's hands on his hips. He's had so many years of practice faking it that he already feels something close to normal by the time he pulls on a red button-up and a pair of black jeans and heads down the hall.

Sokka is sitting at the kitchen counter with a calligraphy brush and an inkstone, tongue sticking out as he strokes shapes onto a piece of featherlight rice paper. 

"What are you doing?" Zuko asks.

Sokka startles and swipes a black line straight across the countertop. "Shit!" he says, groping for the paper towels.

"Sorry," says Zuko, but he's snickering anyway.

"And that one was looking so nice," Sokka whines. There's a pile of crumpled papers beside him. "I'm trying to finish these name cards. The theme is 'Memories.' See, this one—" he holds up a sheet with what looks like a scarecrow on it, "—is Katara's old teddy bear. And this one here—" two angry-looking eyebrows, "—waves! For her swimming!" He shows Zuko another piece. "See?"

Zuko studies the multi-legged creature. "A tardigrade!" he says.

"What? No. What? It's Aang's cat, Appa!"

"Oh," says Zuko. "It's very good."

Sokka sullenly balls up the drawing. "I looked up the world 'puerile.'"

Zuko pats him on the shoulder before he even thinks about it, and Sokka glances at him, surprised. His hand lingers for a moment before he pulls it away. The two of them stare at each other. Zuko feels something swell in his throat, and he hopes Sokka isn't about to ask him a question, because there's no way he could manage a difficult answer right now. 

But Sokka just says, "I'm sorry about yesterday."

He's legitimately surprised. " _You're_ sorry? I'm the one who owes you an apology. I shouldn't have run out on you like that while you were—" he hesitates.

"Losing my shit," Sokka finishes wryly. "You can say it." He pauses, swirling the brush around on the stone before setting it down. His gorgeous eyes have gone shiny, soft. "I have a panic disorder," he says at last. "Azula and I talked after you left, so I know you're familiar with the diagnosis."

"You should also know that you have nothing to be sorry for, then," says Zuko. "Really, I regret leaving you. I could've been there for you, but I got mad. Mad—and scared."

"Scared of what?" Sokka asks.

Zuko licks his lips. He suddenly can't meet his gaze. "I don't know. Scared of what you _weren't_ going to say, I guess."

Sokka looks down. After a pause, he laughs a little, and the sound is so bitter and lost that it breaks Zuko's heart.

"'It's bad.'"

"What is?" says Zuko.

"I mean, do you remember saying that last night?"

He has to think about it. He was so overwhelmed; he has trouble recalling those blurry minutes with Sokka there on the floor, knuckles pressed to his quivering lips. But it comes back to him. Why Sokka left him. _I have to assume it's bad._

"I remember," says Zuko.

"Well, maybe it was," Sokka says. "Bad, I mean. Would it help you to know that?"

In many ways, it's exactly what Zuko wanted to hear, yes. But he hadn't thought of what it would mean for Sokka. That he was unhappy. That he was hurting. That something unspeakable had chased Sokka away from him, razed them both, instead of just Zuko. He shakes his head.

"No," he says quietly. "That doesn't help."

Slowly, so slowly, Sokka reaches up to touch Zuko's cheek with just the barest tips of his fingers.

"Here's where I'm supposed to tell you why I left you," Sokka whispers. "I tell you, and it ruins you, but you at least have your answers. You thank me. Lot of anger in it. Then you lock yourself up, and no one ever sees the real you again, because you've been fucked over too many times in your life. By things you've seen. By things you won't tell me. You know how to keep a secret. We both do. But you're braver, and you'd keep walking, even if it means doing it alone."

"I don't want to be alone," says Zuko. His throat is very tight.

"I don't, either," says Sokka.

"I don't ever want to not be there for you again."

Sokka's eyes flicker away. "God, that's _my_ line. Zuko—"

Zuko touches their mouths together.

It's not quite a kiss. No weight at all to it. Sokka's lips are parted, and Zuko rests at the place where his breath quavers, their free hands almost touching on the countertop between them.

And when Zuko pulls away, Sokka leans in again. He kisses the corner of Zuko's mouth so delicately that Zuko barely feels it. Traces upward against his cheek, lips at Zuko's scarred temple. He kisses there, too, pale pink tissue that Zuko is too tired and terrified to be ashamed of anymore, and the contact is less like electricity and more like a cool, soothing balm. They sit like that for a long moment, holding their breath.

Then Sokka sits back and blinks at him with damp blue eyes.

Zuko swallows. He studies twenty-two-year-old Sokka, his long hair; his new, adult jawline. He says, voice uneven, "Was that a goodbye kiss?"

"I don't know," says Sokka. "Do you want it to be?"

"No," says Zuko. "No. But—"

Sokka waits without pressure. He reaches out and takes Zuko's hand, and Zuko recognizes the gesture as non-romantic, because there's an unabashed firmness to it. No presumption. Just support. 

It makes Zuko want to lean in and kiss him again.

Instead, he says, "I'm sorry. I can't. Not yet."

"Okay," says Sokka.

"There's just—there's so much, and—"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Zuko." Sokka lets go, sits back. When Zuko's eyes meet his again, Sokka locks that contact with his clear, bright gaze, and says, "I'll wait for you."

"Sokka," says Zuko, throat closing up. "I can't promise anything."

"That's fine," says Sokka. "But I'll be here. I'm not gonna let you go again."

It incites in Zuko a hot, rightful frustration. "You don't know that! What changed your mind this time? What's so different now that you can suddenly—" he sweeps out one hand, and it catches the stack of rice paper on the counter, sending it fluttering up around them. The moment recalls so strongly the day of Sokka's proposal, the air speckled with sheet music, that Zuko can't help but feel a premonitory chill. He drops to his knees, fumbling to pick up the drawings. "Sorry," he says huskily.

"Zuko! Listen. You never need to forgive me," says Sokka, stooping down beside him and stilling his hands with his own. "I don't expect you to, and I hope you know that I'll never forgive myself, either. But I—" 

"You did what was best for me," says Zuko, crouched there on the floor. "That's what Suki told me."

Sokka raises his eyebrows, caught off-guard. "When did you talk to Suki?"

"Last night. I went to Aang's apartment, and Katara was fitting all their dresses."

Sokka's mouth drops open. "I told her to let a seamstress do that!" he cries, shaking his head. "She doesn't have time to be doing everything herself!"

Zuko snaps his fingers at him. "That's what I said!"

"God, she's already stressed enough as it is! She didn't even want a big wedding to begin with, and now she won't even wear Mom's old dress because she's convinced it doesn't match the 'aesthetic—'"

It's as good a segue as any. Zuko can't help but chuckle at Sokka's tone, and the heaviness slips from the room a little bit at a time, leaving them with wedding stress and small, nervous smiles. Slowly, Sokka begins gathering his papers. Zuko joins him. It'd be the perfect time to accost him, push him to the floor and devour his lovely mouth, but Zuko's heart tells himself to wait. He knows already that he is going to remain cautious for a long, long time. It still hurts far too badly to heal over all the way.

But for the first time in five years, he is willing to let Sokka begin making it up to him.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Sokka offers.

Zuko says yes.

*

Jet gets back to him that evening.

_Fire Nation Scum,_

Zuko stops reading, rolls his eyes, and sighs. As an extension of his Fire Lord nickname, Jet has apparently assigned him sovereignty over an entire civilization. Zuko puts on his reading glasses in anticipation of the massive headache he's going to have when he finishes reading this email.

_Fire Nation Scum, your getting in touch with me despite our conflicts demonstrates a maturity and leadership that I find admirable. I would be honored to attend Aang's Bachelor Party. I know that we've had our differences in the past, but I like to think I have matured a little, and imagine that enough time has passed that we will be able to occupy the same building without coming to blows. Thank you for the invitation. I will see you soon._

Wow. Character development. Zuko sits back, surprised and heartened. He and Jet had a major falling out about eleven months into their friendship as a result of some serious sociopolitical differences, but it's been four years. Maybe they've both grown up since then.

 _Freedom Fighter Prick,_ he writes back, _thank you for your reply. Aang and I look forward to seeing you. Leave the hook swords at home._

*

Zuko and Sokka pick Aang up at his apartment at seven, then drive him to the Superfruit Republic, where he helps them both order big concoctions of acai, pitaya, goji berries, pumpkin seeds, and macadamia nuts. Chlorella, too, whatever the hell that is, which Sokka pronounces as "cholera" at the counter. They take a table in the back to eat.

"This is good," says Sokka, sounding surprised.

"We've come a long way since soggy tofu," says Aang.

"Have you always been vegan?"

"I have." Aang hesitates. "Not all of my foster families supported it, though, so there were a few years of sweeping up at grocery stores in exchange for fruits and veggies and peanuts. I'd have to eat on the sly so as not to bother anyone. Those were sort of difficult times." Before anyone can dwell on that: "But they're behind me now! And I'm getting married in three weeks, guys!"

Zuko has to force a smile, because the Wedding Countdown has become irrevocably tied to the Courtroom Countdown in his mind. Aang seems to sense this, but he also has an awareness of Zuko's need to get out of his own head for a while, because he casually grabs his hand under the table.

"So you two are roommates now, huh?" he asks them. "What have you been working on?"

Azula's baking, wedding tasks, not caving in and kissing each other senseless. "I think I have all the variations of the name cards ready," says Sokka. "Just gotta wait until Monday for the last of the RSVPs to trickle in, then I'll ship 'em off to the printer's. Wanted to talk to you about some of that stuff. Cardstock, font, matte or gloss, et cetera. Drop by next week to look at some samples with me?"

"For sure! Thank you."

"Oh, Jet RSVPed," says Zuko. "Civilly."

"Wow, that's great!" Aang says. To Sokka: "Last time Jet and Zuko hung out, they got into a fistfight in the parking lot of a Village Inn."

"Aang!" Zuko yells.

"Over what?" Sokka asks, laughing.

"Capitalism," says Aang, broadly and accurately. 

"I don't want to talk about it," says Zuko. "We've both educated ourselves since then. And—"

Zuko feels something brush lightly against his wrist, resting in the center of his lap. Aang and Sokka stiffen on either side of him. They look equally taken aback.

"What was that?" asks Zuko, confused.

Aang stands up and points at Sokka. "Did you just try to hold Zuko's hand?" he demands.

Sokka looks completely caught out. He raises both arms above his head. "I'm sorry! He looked upset, and I just—I don't know, it was reflex!"

"Reflex? You two are holding hands now?" Aang asks. "What have I missed? What's going on?"

"Aang, holy shit, you're making a scene," says Zuko, snagging his elbow and dragging him back into his seat. Aang sits down and waits with wide, expectant eyes, looking equal parts confused and territorial. He takes both of Zuko's hands and hauls them protectively against his own chest, away from Sokka. Sokka reddens.

"I wasn't thinking," he says. "Sorry. The gesture would not have been welcome anyway."

Zuko presses his lips together, nervous. He suspects he wouldn't have pulled away from Sokka, but it's impossible to know now, and Aang is suddenly fraying with stress. Taking care of him is more important than whatever is happening or not happening between himself and Sokka.

"Are you all right, Aang?" Zuko asks. Aang is still gripping his wrists.

"Yeah, fine!" Aang says rapidly. "My wedding is in three weeks! There'll be over a hundred guests! The theme somehow became 'art deco'—what _is_ art deco, even?—and the seating chart! The _seating chart!_ We're all sitting at a long table at the head of the room, right, but I had to stick Suki between you and Sokka because I don't know if you're going to spend the night kicking each other or playing footsie or what, and the wedding party is really lopsided because you're my only close male friend! I have _no friends!"_

"Oh, wow," says Sokka. He stands up, knowing when to make himself scarce. "I'm going to get you another cholera bowl. Sit tight."

Once he's out of sight, Aang releases Zuko's hands, grasps at his short hair, and makes a wheezing noise.

"Okay, Aang," says Zuko. "Here's what Sokka and I are going to do: we're going to spend the next few weeks fixing your wedding until it is _exactly_ what you want it to be. Give us a list of changes you want to make. Visuals you want to adjust. Vendors you want to cancel."

"I can't put this on you," Aang moans. "Not when you have so much going on yourself!"

"It is a welcome distraction, I assure you."

"Zuko, I feel like I'm trying so hard to be a good fiancé and friend at the same time that I'm failing at both!"

"You have always been there for Katara, and you could never fail me as a friend," Zuko says. "Ever."

Aang smiles at that, wide and genuine, and with Zuko rubbing circles on his back, his breathing slowly becomes calm again. Zuko feels a queasy wave of guilt. He doesn't fault himself for being thrown by the Sokka stuff, and neither does Aang, but he's glad they're working toward a ceasefire now. And for fuck's sake, he wishes Aang would accept his financial help. The kid works two jobs while Zuko inhabits the penthouse of the tallest building in the city. But Aang didn't even let Zuko pay for his own food today.

Zuko's determination to perfect Aang's wedding is strong and grounding. He has always worked best on a mission. He rarely initiates hugs, but he does today, and Aang melts into it. "Your big day is going to be perfect," Zuko says.

"Thanks, Zuko," says Aang, sniffling.

Sokka, no doubt waiting just around the corner, gives them time to disengage before reappearing with a mountain of fruit and granola and setting it in front of Aang.

"So what's the plan?" he asks.

Zuko puts his hand on Sokka's shoulder. The gesture is easy, painless. "We're going to save a wedding," he declares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sub-plot "Save the Wedding" is a go! Let's be honest, Aang deserves it. And if nineteen-year-old Zuko was a capitalist, then, well, we don't need to talk about it.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Please feel free to hit me up at [my Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). It's been amazing hearing from you all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: references to past abuse, date rape drugs, and manic episodes.

It's no Smythson crossgrain leather diary with gilt-edged paper, but it turns out that Katara and Aang do have a sort of wedding journal of their own—a battered spiral-bound notebook stuffed with Post-Its and letters. Zuko aches the instant he opens it. A beautiful love story pours free: the card that came with the first bouquet Aang sent Katara, their following correspondences, poems and book excerpts and photographs that spell out a relationship that started out strong and then grew wings.

"Wow," says Sokka softly. "They kept everything."

Zuko opens one of the envelopes. It's full of paper napkins and dinner menu cards. "They really did." Then, because he can't help it: "We didn't have mementos like this, did we?"

"Well, empty parking lots don't exactly sell souvenirs," says Sokka, attempting sarcasm, but only succeeding in making both of them flush.

"After the engagement, though. That whole month."

Sokka's smile grows strained. He looks back down at the pile of keepsakes, and Zuko thinks he sees something like fear or panic flash in his gaze, but it happens so quickly that he doesn't have time to ask before Sokka says, voice low and humble, "I guess I just thought we would have more time."

Zuko is quiet. He could get mad at that. He'd have a right to. But the anger has been bleeding from him bit by bit, and he finds in place of temper a quiet, targetless melancholy. "Yeah," he says.

Sokka snickers. "Look at this."

It's a strip of pictures from a photo booth. Zuko himself is actually in the first shot, arms crossed and expression blank, then he's peacing out in the second frame, lifting the curtain to exit the stall. In the third shot, Katara and Aang are grinning shyly at each other. By the fourth, they're hugging, clearly blushing even in black-and-white, holding up linked pinkies. The border is made up of tiny hearts. TRUE LOVE, it reads at the bottom, in bubbly cursive.

"That was at the mall, before they tore down the arcade," says Zuko. "Katara was buying new hiking boots."

"What's this?" asks Sokka, holding up two stubs from a ticket roll.

"Aang's school musical. He was—god. Only sixteen. He was the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland."

"Fuck, that's adorable." Sokka hesitates. "You remember everything, Zuko."

"The things that matter," Zuko agrees. _Your shoe size. Your favorite ice cream. The paint swatch we took from the home improvement store that matched your eyes: it was called 'Watertown.' I burned it after I got sick in that alley. The night the 'Fire Lord' nickname caught on. The night 'Prince Zuko' let go._

Sokka flips through a small stack of Polaroids of Katara and Aang, faded enough that they look like they're from another era. He pauses on one of the two of them draped together in the same armchair, Katara in a crop top, Aang swimming in one of Zuko's Bergdorf Goodman cable-knit cardigans. Sokka looks so young and lost in that instant. He swipes his hair out of his face, exposing misty, confused eyes. "I wish I'd kept souvenirs," says Sokka, "because that last summer is a bit of a blur for me now."

Zuko's heart begins pounding. "For me too, but what do you mean?" he asks.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Sokka demurs quickly.

"Sokka. Please."

He licks his lips and presses them together. After a very long moment, he says, "It wasn't fuzzy back then. I remember that. Everything was—hyperreal. Sharp and clear. Like crystal. But the further away from that month I get, the more I lose it, and until recently, I thought I'd be fine with that—even if it meant forgetting parts of us. But being back here has brought back a lot of the good, and the bad is locked up." He looks up fast. "Metaphorically, I mean."

"I don't understand," Zuko says. He's not getting angry, but it's a near thing; the passion building inside him longs for a violent outlet, though he keeps it trapped behind clenched teeth. "You wanted to let me go, to disappear. I was trying to learn to respect that. Then you said you'd wait for me. Are you taking that back?"

"No! No. I just mean—in the kitchen, you asked me what changed my mind," says Sokka. "And that's it. That's what's different. I'm saying—it finally feels safe to love you again."

It's clear that that's where Sokka wants to leave it, but Zuko presses. "What was endangering you?"

Sokka shakes his head. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

"Sokka," says Zuko, "what happened to you?"

The last time he asked that question, Sokka received it terribly. _What a fucking rude thing to say, Zuko._ But now he says, voice shaking, "Can I tell you something?"

"You can tell me anything," says Zuko.

"It's not about us. Not directly."

"Tell me, Sokka."

Sokka lets out a slow breath, nods, and swallows. He doesn't meet Zuko's eyes as he speaks. "Katara knows this," he says. "I think she even told you about it. But I—after you, I dated this guy, Mongke, and—"

Zuko does know this story. He sets Aang and Katara's planner aside so he can reach forward and cup Sokka's face with one hand, keeping him at a respectful arm's length while maintaining physical contact. Sokka presses his cheek into Zuko's palm, like he had during his panic attack, but this time Zuko isn't going anywhere. Pain rolls off of Sokka in palpable waves. He closes his hand over Zuko's. His fingers are tender, proportional. Not familiar again, not yet, but maybe they'll get there one day.

"He only hit me once, but like—my eye bled," says Sokka. "He broke a tooth. When I'm tired, my vision doubles a little. Only sometimes. It's not a big deal."

Zuko aches; he fucking _aches._ "Sokka."

"I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"You don't need a reason. Thank you for sharing that with me."

"Has anyone ever hit you?" Sokka asks.

It should incite something in Zuko. Fear or rage; caution, at the very least. But the answer slips off his tongue easily: "No," he says, and perhaps even if he really thought about it, he would discover that he's telling the truth—on a technicality.

His father was only ever rough with him that once.

"Thank God," Sokka says, with a gasping little laugh. "I always worried that—never mind. I'm relieved. I'm so relieved I could cry."

He is crying, though, eyes watering, and _that_ gives Zuko a tremendous kick of terror: what did Sokka think he was going to say? What did he suspect? Zuko gulps back fear and sickness and a shaky sort of disbelief in lieu of a practiced, reassuring smile that quickly becomes true confidence. There is no way anyone else knows. He keeps his father's secrets.

Because Zuko is a good son.

_A fine young man._

"It's okay, Sokka," Zuko says, touching his shoulder. "We're both okay."

"Yes," says Sokka, voice firm and bracing. He sits up straight. "Everything is all right."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," says Zuko, removing his hand from Sokka's face and pulling Aang and Katara's notebook back into his lap. "This here says that their dream wedding is 'eco-friendly' and 'nautical.' That's about as far from art deco as you can get."

"No problem," declares Sokka, thumping his chest with one fist. He gropes around for a pen. Pauses, gaze locked with Zuko's. "Together, we can do anything," he says, after a moment.

Zuko laughs. "What a fucking line, buddy."

"I mean it." Sokka breaks eye contact with a wink. He grabs Zuko's wrist, the touch tight and electric, blinking back the last of his tears."And we'll do it with style!"

For the rest of the afternoon, they make a substantial list of what needs to be done: book a new venue, fire the weird experimental jazz musicians, pare down the decorations, take all the grandiose hors d'oeuvres off the menu. Check in with the officiant and stylists. Fix the fucking seating arrangements once and for all. They parse the pages of the planner for ideas: Katara's bluebells and creamy camellias complement the sun-yellow Aang favors, which can be used sparingly as an accent color.

"Yellow daisies," Sokka suggests. "Napkin holders. Ribbons?"

"Wine charms," says Zuko.

"Frosting. No, wait, Aang wanted the salad bar thing."

"Bell peppers. Squash. Bee pollen?"

"Ah-ah. Not vegan. Also pretty fucking pretentious, Zuko."

"This is why I keep you around, Sokka. To keep me grounded."

"Aw, thanks, darling."

While the two of them research smaller event centers, inns, and coastal grounds on Zuko's laptop, he gets a call from Uncle Iroh.

"Confucius once said, 'Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life,'" he says in greeting. "Alternatively, you could just play hooky from a job you hate."

"I don't hate working at the tea shop, Uncle," says Zuko guiltily. "Did I miss another shift?"

"It's okay. Aang told me you are freelancing as his new wedding planner. I wanted to call and ask if the Jasmine Dragon's beverage services were still desired."

"Of course they are. Did you really think we'd fire you?"

"I didn't want to become the only incongruous part of a leading-edge ceremony."

"Like anything about Aang is in vogue," says Zuko. "He's been wearing the same sneakers for four years."

"Offense taken," Aang says, from close by.

"Aang! While I have you here, where were you and Katara going for your honeymoon? Are you going to an airport partway through the reception? I think we've got a lead on a new venue, but we need to make sure it doesn't interfere with any of your travel plans."

There's a long, uncomfortable pause. "We were going to go camping," says Aang.

Zuko waits for long enough that Sokka leans in too, almost cheek-to-cheek with Zuko, but Aang doesn't elaborate. "Okay," Zuko says. "What state? Which national park?"

"Do you remember Katara's watchtower?"

"Oh no," says Zuko.

"It's romantic! It's where we first met!"

"You first met under the ice of Lake Laogai."

"And that was an incredibly traumatic experience. Thank you for reminding me." Aang's voice is uncharacteristically strained. "Look, Zuko, Katara and I agreed that we'd have a wedding for our family and friends, but we don't exactly have the money to eff off to Tibet for two weeks. Pardon my language. And please don't offer us financial assistance. We don't want to be a burden."

"Aang," says Sokka, snatching the phone away, "even if Zuko didn't pee every night in a four-thousand-dollar elongated wall-mounted toilet with a bidet seat, he'd want you and my sister to have a nice honeymoon. You deserve it. I'll chip in too." He wanders onto the balcony, listening. The last thing Zuko hears is, "Yeah, even his toaster is—I know! Four slices at once! Opulent!" before Sokka slides the glass door shut behind himself. Zuko watches him wander around, his calves flexing handsomely as he paces.

"You're drooling, Zuzu," says Azula from behind him.

Zuko turns. She's toweling her hair dry, wearing fresh pajamas and socks. God, Zuko will never tire of seeing her out of the office and so composed. He smiles.

"I didn't get a chance to thank you for taking care of him the other night," he says.

"Yes, you really turned tail, didn't you?"

"Yeah. I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again. How were drinks with Katara and company?"

"Eventful. Some bastard tried to slip her a soporific."

Zuko's smile falls. "Holy shit. Is she okay?"

"She was shaken. Didn't stop her from punching him in the stones. Gotta love a girl who knows how to land a spinning backfist."

"Did you speak to the police?"

Azula is quiet for a beat too long. "Yes."

His eyes narrow. "Why the hesitation?"

"Well, I allowed Mai to hail security, and I waited down the street. It was fine. There were plenty of other witnesses, and Katara had the ladies there for support."

"But you didn't stay with her?" Zuko asks, confused. 

Azula slings the towel around her shoulders and meets Zuko's gaze squarely. "No, I didn't," she said. "If you'd been there, I would have advised you to disappear as well."

"I don't understand."

"Zuko, keep up with me. It's about being a clean character witness for Father. In eight days, we're testifying in one of the highest profile cases of the decade. You don't actually want him to go to prison, do you?"

It shakes him. "How could you even ask me that?"

"Then you'd better play your part, because this is all riding on your shoulders."

" _My_ shoulders? What about you?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I've had a rough few years," says Azula, voice dripping with irony, but no real contempt. In fact, she sounds—exhausted. Zuko hates that; hates the shadow that passes across her face as she says, "It's very likely that any testimony I provide will be thrown out because of my medical history. Manic schizoaffective disorder does not look good in court, especially given my recent episodes. In fact, in Father's eyes, I may be worse than worthless. I—may be a liability."

"You are not a liability, Azula, and you are not worthless," Zuko says, taking her firmly by the arms. "You have an illness. You are so strong for living with your difficulties."

"Do you mean that?" she asks. She suddenly can't seem to look at him.

"Of course I do."

"I never wanted to be the crazy bitch of the family, you know."

"And you never were," he says.

She catches him in a sudden, ruthless hug, and he holds her as she buries her face in his shoulder and sobs just once into his shirt. They stand there together for a long time. He strokes her damp hair, admiring her steady, compact form. When they finally detach, her expression glimmers with sympathy and heartbreak, and she holds onto one of his hands.

"Father has always placed terrible burdens on you," she says. "Sometimes I wonder if I even know the full extent of it."

"I love him," says Zuko.

He's repeated it to himself a million times, but something must be off in the way he says it aloud, because Azula stops and stares at him. Really stares at him, as if trying to decipher a riddle.

She's still flaying him alive with that strange, not-quite-comprehending gaze when Sokka slides open the patio door.

"You got a text message," he says, and tosses Zuko his phone.

Zuko checks it immediately, if only as a means to break eye contact with Azula. 

His fingers immediately go numb.

"Zuko?" asks Sokka, crossing the room to touch his shoulder. "Zuko, what's wrong?"

 **Unknown sender** : You can't have them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). Thank you all for reading this chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't remember the phrase "pointing fingers" for a sec, and almost typed that this chapter was full of "fingering." Whoops, not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter to make up for a longer wait. I'm so sorry, review replies for chapter eight are going to take me another few days, but I'll get to them ASAP! Thanks so, so much for the patience and support. Warning for mention of parental incest.

"Who would win? Four engineers or one restricted phone number?" asks Sokka.

"You should've asked us to change a lightbulb," says Mai.

"I have a new Lucien Lèvy joke," Ty Lee says. "It goes like this: two radio receivers walk into a gay bar—"

"If the punchline contains the words 'superhet' or 'top-performing,' I don't want to hear it," says Azula.

"Why? Because you're neither?" asks Mai.

"Ooh. Electrical burn," says Ty Lee.

Their banter continues to split Zuko perfectly between the impulses to laugh and scream, so he sits perfectly still at the countertop, phone clenched in his hands. Mai and Ty Lee, on the concierge's Approved Guests list, were on their way up to surprise everyone with lunch when he received the text. They're not taking him seriously, and Zuko can't blame them: without revealing sensitive information about himself, he is unable to emphasize how invasive the messages really are.

But when their repartee winds down, they return their full attention to Zuko, and his expression is fraught and telling enough that their joviality evaporates immediately. Mai takes one of his hands. "You're really worried about this," she says. "I'm sorry, Zuko. We're listening now."

"What is this person saying to you, precisely?" asks Azula.

Zuko swallows. "Just—things no one should know about my life."

Her eyes are sharp with suspicion and concern. "Can you give us an example?"

Zuko shakes his head.

"Are you being threatened?"

"Yes. Well—I'm not sure." _He still loves you. He never wanted to leave you. You can't have them both._ Explicit threat or not, the messages are certainly pointed and portentous—especially if the last one is referencing his father in the same light as Sokka.

A deep, sick chill runs through Zuko. Who could know about that? There was that close call with Mai's uncle in prison, but the first text predated that encounter, and he doesn't seem like the type for this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. What are the sender's goals? What action or change do they mean to incite? If they wanted money, they would've gone through his father, who is more likely to be seen as culpable despite the consensual and healthy nature of their relationship.

And that's the part that feels cold, for some reason. Somehow wrong, and hollow: the fact that no one here would understand. Zuko would happily vanish off of the earth before trying to explain it to any of his peers. He trusts that Sokka loved him— _loves_ him—but familial love is sacred.

His father told him that.

"Zuko, you look ill," says Azula. "Tell me what you're thinking. _Please."_

He doesn't quite ignore her, reaching out to grip her hand, but he says instead, "So there's no way to trace this number?"

"'Unknown sender' means that the contact information was never sent with the text, not that it is decryptable," says Mai.

"It's probably coming from a burner anyway," says Sokka.

"Do you need to go to the police with this?" Ty Lee asks, touching his shoulder.

Zuko's stomach lurches. _"No."_

"Because there's no basis for it, or because you're scared to?"

"There's nothing they'd be able to do. And Azula said it herself: we have to be infallible character witnesses for father. No police interaction."

"But did he do it?" Sokka asks.

The kitchen goes quiet. Mai and Ty Lee look at each other, then at Azula and Zuko, who've gone stock-still. It's incredible that they've made it this far without someone asking outright, Zuko thinks distantly. If anything, he should be grateful it has taken so long.

Instead, he wants to disappear into the fucking floor. Because Azula shrugs one shoulder, uncertain, and everyone's focus shifts to him again. Their attention is needle-sharp. For one unspeakably terrible moment, Zuko imagines that everyone can see right through him, see the shame and fear and horror that is all mixed up, sickly, in a complicated and contextual love. Tears suddenly sting his eyes, and he blinks them back so furiously that not a single one falls. He straightens his back. He recites his testimony into the silence with dignity and routine.

"He was with me for most of the evening. We went over the transmission lines. I left after about an hour."

More tears. They tremble on the ends of his lashes. They feel clumped and sticky when he lowers them.

"He might've had time to go to Zhao's with a gun," Zuko admits, speaking clearly, because he might never have the strength to say it again.

Azula closes her eyes and turns away from them, and Ty Lee attends to her while Mai and Sokka lean into Zuko and lay careful, loving touches on his shoulders and arms. Mai, uncharacteristically, kisses him chastely on the cheek. Sokka takes one of his hands and rubs his fingers over Zuko's pristine, cared-for knuckles, the soft pads of his palms, pink and pretty and uncallused.

Zuko has never spent a day on physical labor. As a young adult, yes, there were endless months of studying at his private research university with its eight-percent acceptance rate—he is not a stranger to hard work—but it has never included getting his hands dirty. Until he was twelve, he had servants who helped bathe and dress him. He presented his fingernails for inspection before every meal. His mother used to brush his hair and tuck him into bed, and his feet never touched the bare tile; there were always slippers or socks or soft, luxurious carpets.

He remembers the first time he felt the grass between his toes. It was on a guest marching field while the Roku football team occupied the astroturf. He was seventeen, and Sokka encouraged him to take off his shoes when they were alone after practice. The grass was dewey from a summer storm. Zuko was playfully repulsed—and liberated.

And that's the difference between his father and Sokka, isn't it? Clean nails or dirty soles. Cotton sateen linens or lake water. 

_You can't have them both._

Right now, Sokka's fingertips are rough from sorting mail, and Zuko wants to hold onto them forever.

"What are you going to say?" says Ty Lee. "If they ask you that directly?"

Zuko shrugs. He's trembling. "Our father's lawyer says that the question calls for speculation, so there are grounds to object to it before I have to answer."

"But why would he kill Zhao?" Azula demands. "What motive could he possibly have?"

"Maybe he was being blackmailed," says Sokka.

Zuko jerks at that, as if struck. "Why do you say that?"

Something in Sokka's voice goes weird. "I mean, rich guys are always getting blackmailed, right? Seems more likely than him being successfully threatened. Your dad would face down an oncoming train if he had to."

"What secrets could he be keeping?" asks Azula. Eyes narrowed. Baiting.

"And why would I know that?" asks Sokka, tone hardening.

"You certainly know _something_."

"About what? Your clannish, private, above-all-rules billionaire lives?"

"Why are you getting so defensive?" Zuko asks.

"I'm not getting defensive!"

His jaw is set. Zuko gets the sudden impression of being in a showdown of sorts, the three of them standing equidistant, hands resting on the pistols in their belts. This is dangerous. If this escalates, they're going to start shooting. Azula he understands, but how did Sokka become part of this? Why do the messages implicate him? He, Azula, and Zuko study each other guardedly, with growing suspicion. Zuko wants to defuse this, but he doesn't know how to.

On the counter between them, the phone begins ringing.

It doesn't diminish the tension, but it splits it.

That's good enough for Zuko. He picks up. "This is Zuko," he says.

"Hello!" says a cheerful, beachy voice. "This is Ruon-Jian with Ember Island Tours. You submitted an inquiry about our venues through our online service?"

"Yes, hi," says Zuko, turning away from the counter and wandering into the living room, where he takes a seat on the white leather sectional couch, curved out like a half-moon. He feels everyone's disbelieving eyes on him as he shamelessly abandons their conversation. "I know it's really last-minute, but I was wondering if you have any waterfront sites that might host a small wedding and reception on Sunday the 27th?"

"You're seriously doing this right now?" asks Azula.

"Yeah, man, we had a recent cancelation that might work for you," says Ruon-Jian. "How big's the event?"

"About forty guests?" says Zuko, squinting up at Sokka for confirmation. They're uninviting over a hundred people, and Zuko is reimbursing them for their travel fare. It's a dramatic change, and Aang would surely be upset about the financial compensation if he knew about it, but they really don't need the pressure of having to graciously entertain Katara's father's colleague's pastor or whoever else weaseled their way onto the guest list. Just family and close friends now. Nice and low-key. Zuko waits for Sokka, who nods back after a moment, shoulders still taut.

"Forty-five-ish," he says.

"Forty-five," says Zuko into the phone.

"That'd fit the River's Bend Recreation Room, which accommodates sixty guests for outdoor vows. The property is full of creeks, lakes, docks; great scenery for wedding photo backdrops. Equipment is provided, including tablecloths and lighting. Cleanup services and bridal suites are offered as well. What do you say? Want to come take a look?"

"Yeah, definitely," says Zuko. "You're just off the Kuai Trailhead, right?"

"That's us. When can I pencil you in?"

"We'll be there in two hours."

Zuko hangs up. Sokka looks pleased by their progress, hands clasped together, but the ladies are less than impressed with Zuko's avoidance. Azula has crossed her arms. None of the previous conversation's tension has left her.

"So the Avatar's downsizing. Saw it coming the day Katara asked me if canapes were 'tiny shoes.' Why don't you just hold the ceremony at Father's summer estate?"

"Bad publicity," says Zuko, which is true enough—but the real reason is that the lake is _his_ place. His and Sokka's. He stands up and begins searching for his keys.

Azula locates them on the counter and offers them to Zuko by one fingertip, looped delicately through the ring. Zuko crosses the room and reaches for them. She pulls back just slightly at the last second, so he is forced to take a step forward. The two of them pause there, eyes locked, and for just a moment a sliver of their childhood antagonism slips through.

"What aren't you telling me?" Azula demands.

"I'm telling you everything I can," he says.

She catches the trick in that. Clever. "And what _can't_ you tell me?"

Zuko plucks the keys away and pockets them. "Let's go, Sokka," he says. To Mai and Ty Lee: "Enjoy lunch."

"Bye, Zuko," they chorus, their tones completely different but identically cautious, and Azula surprises him by dropping her face exhaustedly into one hand right as Zuko closes the door. He instantly moves to go back inside when he sees her break, but Sokka grabs his wrist, shaking his head.

"Let her homegirls handle this one," says Sokka. "Trust me, big brother to big brother. There's nothing you can say right now."

"You were some help in there," says Zuko. "'Maybe he was being blackmailed?'"

"Hey, I don't know. I threw an idea out there and it caught fire. Says more about him than it does about me."

He can concede that or ignore it. He ignores it. Sokka's still holding onto his hand, so Zuko uses his grip to haul him along down the corridor. "Hope you don't get carsick on long drives," he says.

Sokka blinks at him, then brightens. "Hey, our first road trip!"

"It's an hour and a half."

"On a real road! Together!"

"Very astute," says Zuko, but Sokka's good cheer is infectious, and he finds a small smile tugging at his lips as he opens the private elevator doors and hits the garage button. This isn't the first time in the past few days that Aang and Katara's wedding has bisected the building strain in a room, and hopefully it's not going to be the last—it's too easy an escape, but Zuko would rather think about chair decor and place settings than ominous text messages. "Want to take the Cadillac?" he asks.

Sokka claps his hands. "Do I ever!"

So he says, but he's asleep almost the instant they merge onto the highway. Zuko's surprised. It's a smooth ride, but the guy must be bone-weary to sleep through the loud Snapline album Zuko turns on so they don't have to talk the whole way. He lowers the volume and navigates the traffic as carefully as he can. It's a good thing he's driving, because he wants badly to stare. He still glances over more often than he should.

Sokka shifts in slumber, grimaces. His expression is so defenseless. Zuko feels somehow that if he looked at him now, really looked at him, he might see a bit of the trauma he carries around with him, hidden carefully under all the light.

*

Ember Island, of course, isn't actually an island in their landlocked state—it's a huge recreation center surrounded by lakes, ponds, creeks, and dozens of water features: artificial waterfalls, streams, fountains, jeux d'eau. Sokka wakes up and oohs and aahs as they approach from the parking lot, but Zuko has been here many times before for various business functions. The place always makes him think of champagne and sausage pinwheels, ass-kissing and antiseptic award presentations.

He hopes the River's Bend Room is mellow, humble. The last thing he wants to remember during the wedding is his father and their jobs, and he doesn't want to replace Aang and Katara's pretentious venue with another pretentious venue, even if it does incorporate their water theme.

Ruon-Jian greets them at the front desk. He's a handsome young man about their age, and he shakes Zuko's hand as he introduces his coworker, a cocky-looking man named Chan. They're both wearing white button-ups and crisp black dress pants, their formality and luxuriance immediately stressful. "Delighted to have you here," Ruon-Jian says. "It's Zuko and—?"

"Fire," Sokka announces in a deep, grand voice, stroking a fake beard with one pinkie out. "Wang Fire."

Pffft. Zuko barely manages not to crack up, eyes watering with repressed laughter. Ruon-Jian and Chan are already shaking Sokka's hand enthusiastically.

"Hello, Mr. Fire! Do you and your fiancé want to follow us?"

"Oh—we're not—" Zuko begins, but Sokka bullies Zuko eagerly with the offer of one elbow until he grudgingly takes it.

"Lead on, gentlemen," Sokka declares.

Chan and Ruon-Jian guide them through the complex. They pass by enormous ballrooms and extravagant banquet halls. Zuko recognizes one of them as the site of Azula's soiree to celebrate her promotion to Head System Design Engineer last year.

That was the day his father pulled him aside into a deeper corridor to kiss him, mouth sharp and sweet with the taste of shaojiu. He made Zuko palm him lightly through his pressed trousers, enough that Zuko could feel his arousal. He had never before been so bold. Of course he disengaged before anyone could happen upon them, but Zuko remembers the terror of possible discovery, mixed with a strange _find me, someone_ that he still can't explain. He ducks his head when they pass by that hallway, even though it is well-lit now, safe. His grip tightens on Sokka's arm.

Sokka clasps his hand in his own and smiles at him. His expression seems not quite unaware, somehow—conscious of Zuko's sudden apprehension, even if he can't explain it himself—and that makes Zuko feel far less lonely, if uncomfortably vulnerable. He smiles back at Sokka to assuage it. Sokka elevates his chin and pulls a smug, pretentious face, eyebrows raised patronizingly. Zuko snickers.

"And this is the River's Bend Recreation Room," Chan says, swinging opening a set of double doors at the end of the hall.

Zuko and Sokka step inside. Sokka is already nodding, and Zuko's right there with him: the space is intimate and clean, hosting two medium-sized banquet tables between round, delicately embellished columns. The entire east-facing wall is made up of ceiling-high windows, and the doors lead directly onto a large wooden patio with a wide pier that leads out into the lake. A lovely place for vows. Much more Aang and Katara's speed than the massive reception hall they currently have booked.

He smiles, imagining the two of them barefoot on the dock, hands linked as the sky splashes dusk-chilly color over them. Katara's blue-lavender bridesmaid gowns are going to pop beautifully against the scenery, and she _will_ wear her mother's wedding dress, even if Zuko has to learn how to alter it himself.

The ceremony will be perfect.

"Can we talk about pricing?" he asks.

For the next hour or so, Ruon-Jian and Chan discuss ceremony fees and reception packages. Eager to profit despite the cancelation, they're willing to make a few exceptions for the amenities that Aang and Katara don't need—extra chairs, an additional wedding coordinator, cake-tasting options. Sokka, of course, discusses it all as if it were his own celebration, nodding wisely and alternating between roleplaying Wang Fire and, weirdly, Katara herself.

"Hmm, yes, my handsome brother Sokka will enjoy the fifteen-by-fifteen dance floor," Sokka says. "He is quite the terpsichorean."

"Sokka would probably go to great, embarrassing lengths to get to use that word in a sentence," says Zuko.

"It is quite likely," says Sokka.

By the end of the negotiations, Zuko's feeling pretty good about keeping within Aang and Katara's original lean budget. He's fairly certain he can strong-arm the previous stateroom into returning a good portion of their hefty deposit, and the money they'll save by cutting back the two-hundred-dollar-per-head guest list will pay for the new location in addition to some of the more inventive and palatable vegan catering options that Aang had to pass on initially.

Zuko and Sokka are confident enough in their tastes on behalf of the soon-to-weds that they pay for the venue in full, and begin talking about moving forward with other details of the event while Chan and Ruon-Jian leave to make copies of the paperwork.

"Officiant can stay," says Sokka, ticking things off his fingers. "Photographer can stay. We do need to hire new musicians pronto, and they need an actual gift registry, because they were too shy to make one themselves. I'll figure out transportation for everyone on the wedding day if you'll do me a huge favor and work on their honeymoon plans. They are not going to vacation in a fucking watchtower. I will give you every cent I own to ensure that."

"Is Wang Fire especially affluent?" asks Zuko.

"No, he is a very poor and high-strung man. He has a pregnant wife and miscreant for a son. I think I'd rather be Sokka."

"I'd rather you be Sokka, too."

There's an accidental softness in his voice that makes Sokka pause, the tips of his ears turning red. He turns around to study the hardwood paneled wall of the office, upon which hundreds of photographs are thumbtacked. Newlyweds old and young and modern and traditional and teary and beaming. Sokka points to an ecstatic pair of women in matching pink tuxes, chuckling.

"Cute."

It's a dangerous game, but Zuko can't help himself: "What do you think our colors would've been?"

"Blue and gold," says Sokka, a little too quickly, confidently. His blush deepens. "I mean, I don't know. We would've discussed it." He glances away. With his eyes still on the wall, he says, "Flowers?"

"Calla lilies," Zuko says quietly, with the same readiness.

They turn toward each other, hungering, but neither of them can find the words to follow up. A quiet moment passes. Ruon-Jian returns to the room and hesitates at the doorway, smiling.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting," he says. "Wow, you two have incredible chemistry."

"Thank you, young man," Sokka says in Wang Fire's voice. Zuko laughs aloud, wiping at his eyes.

"Here's all the information you'll need for your big day," Ruon-Jian says, passing them a neat cream-colored folder. "My card's in there. Give me a call if you have any questions."

"We appreciate this," Zuko says, giving his hand a firm shake.

"It's my pleasure. Nothing beats a happy couple."

"Got that right," says Sokka.

Once Zuko and Sokka are alone outside again, Zuko stands in the sunshine with his head raised, drinking in the light and warmth. His eyes are closed when Sokka reaches out and touches Zuko's pinkie tentatively with his own. Zuko responds by giving his hand a squeeze, strong and unmistakable, but he lets go before he begins walking back to the car. Sokka follows after a beat of stunned immobility, and there's a distinct spring to his step. He turns away to pump one fist.

Zuko looks back once over his shoulder at the rec center, then at Sokka, who is grinning broadly, eclipsing—so easily and cleanly—the memories of his father and a dark, quiet hallway.

*

On the way home, Zuko and Sokka stop by a patisserie and buy Azula a box of raspberry and malted milk macarons. Deep scarlet and pale, sparkly blue. She's doing yoga on the patio when they get home, makeup scrubbed off, eyes shut, and her clean face is so beautiful and peaceful and familiar that Zuko doesn't have the heart to disrupt her. He leaves the box on the kitchen counter with her name on it and beckons Sokka into his own room so Azula can have the living area alone for her cool-down. Sokka, under no illusions that this is a seduction, drapes himself unsexily on Zuko's bed and passes out immediately.

Zuko worries about how frequently and quickly Sokka falls asleep these days. He must be way more drained than he lets on. Zuko slips in on the other side of the gigantic king size mattress, large enough that they don't touch despite the way Sokka sprawls across the centerline, and dreams of a wedding they never had.

Aang and Azula stand by Zuko, resplendent in gold and black, and Suki and Katara wear sapphire blue at Sokka's side. Calla lilies everywhere, smooth-white and pure. Sokka kisses the back of Zuko's hands before they link them for vows, and Zuko tells him, meaning every word from the bottom of his damaged heart, that he is never safer, stronger, or kinder than he is in Sokka's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). Thanks for connecting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team Avatar, assemble! Sorry for the late chapter; I overthought it and got extra stuck. Let me know if you catch any continuity errors, please? And thank you so much, JezebelGoldstone, for the reminder to use the "underage" tag for that One Scene, and now for this chapter, which briefly details some interactions wherein Zuko was 17/18 and Sokka was 16/17.
> 
> Because I can no longer dance around it, does fandom favor any specific last names for Zuko, or can I perhaps just use "Lee?" Thank you all for the unbelievable support, as always. You guys are amazing.

This isn't his father's embrace.

He's not being held from behind, an arm closed around his biceps to keep them pinned at his sides. He feels no man's urgency at his back or between his thighs; there's no hand tugging at his hair, tilting his head so his throat is bared. There are no fingers under the waistband of his briefs. He is not being stroked awake without warning.

Slowly, Zuko opens his eyes. Sokka snores lightly below him. Zuko is tucked against his chest, palm resting on his sternum, Sokka's lips pressed directly against his forehead. Sokka's got one arm around Zuko's shoulder, but the other is lying flat over the mattress. For the first time, Zuko notices that he's got a tiny constellation tattooed in the crook of that elbow. He doesn't know his astronomy well enough to recognize which one it is.

He wants to kiss every tiny star.

Zuko sits up and stares down at Sokka. His long lashes. The dusky rose of his cheeks and mouth. Sokka has gotten taller, thin but for his wide, toned shoulders, tapering down to a neat waistline and—Zuko swallows hard—a dusting of short hair under his bellybutton that leads into a half-inch of visible elastic from his boxers. Zuko looks away, flushing. He wonders what has changed on Sokka's body—and what hasn't. 

Their relationship as teenagers was voracious, though largely over-the-clothes for that first year. Lots of holding each other, lots of shy rubbing and laughing. Kissing hungrily whenever they were alone for more than thirty seconds. Zuko was conscientious of Sokka's being only sixteen, though, and himself seventeen, as well as the heir to a family fortune that incorporated a small measure of publicity before he left Sozin Academy and hid himself within the anonymity of a uniformed marching band. He kept his identity from Sokka as best he could. He talked about his life in careful, curated details, and kissed Sokka whenever the questions got too personal.

He was afraid Sokka was going to be furious with him when he found out about his family's wealth and eminence at the summer manor, but Sokka was only worried about his own deficiency. It's laughable. _Sokka_ , inadequate? Sokka with his huge grin and cheeky band innuendos and wide belts with the shiny, square studs that Zuko liked to thumb over while they made out?

That was the night they had sex for the first time. Delight after delight: Sokka thick inside of him. Zuko rocking himself on top of his shaky, sweaty body. Kissing bare chest to bare chest, swallowing down Sokka's moans, stretching him out and entering him and holding him until they were both sore and sated. Zuko slipped out of bed at dawn for his morning jog, and Sokka pulled him back, jerking him to climax in the messy nest of their sheets. Zuko felt Sokka in every step he took that day. He couldn't stop smiling. Even now, he knows it's the happiest he's ever been.

Sokka sighs in his sleep, flops over onto his stomach. Zuko stares at the tiny plane of revealed skin at the small of his back, where his spine dips in. He chews his lip, remembering.

After they made love in Zuko's room that day, Sokka experienced a strange bout of diffidence—a week where he seemed too shy to be seen. He was quiet. Contemplative. Zuko thought to ask if Sokka regretted what they'd done, but the night he intended to broach the subject, Sokka interrupted him with a wicked smile and a deep, delicious kiss, then leaned over in the front seat of Zuko's Lexus and took him in his mouth. It incited in them a white-hot competitive streak of escalating intensity that lasted up until the day Sokka disappeared.

The night before: Zuko facedown across Sokka's lap, both of them panting, Sokka fingers stroking inside of him so firmly and deeply that Zuko sobbed and came without being touched. Nothing of a final farewell in Sokka's goodnight kiss. He wiped Zuko clean with a washcloth and got up from his bed, grinning wildly.

_See you tomorrow night, darling._

_Unnh_ , Zuko had groaned, exhausted, and the two of them laughed until Zuko, catching his breath, returned, _See you tomorrow._

_I love you, Zuko._

_Love you too. Love you so much._

Sokka closed the door behind himself as he left, and Zuko fell asleep before his footsteps had even disappeared down the mansion's hallway. He was whistling last year's marching tune. B flat, E flat, F, quarter rest, B flat, E flat, F—

"What are you humming?"

Jarred, Zuko scrambles to his feet as if slapped. Twenty-two-year-old Sokka, awake now and propped up onto his elbows, is staring at him sleepily over one shoulder, a small smile on his face.

"Was that the first movement of our band show?"

"Shut up," says Zuko.

"Don't be embarrassed. I bought the score just to keep on my laptop." Sokka sits up and stretches. Is it possible that he's even more beautiful now than he was back then? He strokes his hair back out of his eyes and turns to Zuko, a shadow of exhaustion behind his grin. "What time is it?"

"About four in the morning."

Sokka's smile fades. "Holy shit. I didn't even mean to fall asleep, let alone for, what, ten hours?"

"Yeah, we were out."

His voice grows shy and sneaky at the same time. "You slept with me?"

"I slept _beside_ you," Zuko says, flushing at his wording.

"Did you cuddle me? You were such a cuddlebug back then."

"I was never a 'cuddlebug!'" Zuko realizes he's yelling and drops his volume to a whisper: "And even if I were, it's in poor taste to bring it up now. Keep that in the past where it belongs."

"Hey, I said you liked to cuddle. I didn't say you came super hard the time I spanked you in your backseat across from the Waffle House."

 _"Sokka!"_ Zuko roars.

Sokka rolls off the bed, laughing. "Ah, man. Good times. Hey, we should do four AM Waffle House right now, don't you think? Sans the spanking, I mean. Call up Aang and Katara, and I'll call Suki. Can I take a shower before we go?"

"What." That was such a whirlwind that Zuko has to take a moment to unpack everything. "You're welcome to take a shower, but—"

"Thanks!" Sokka skips out of the room for his suitcase, returns with an armload of clean clothing, and pulls the bathroom door shut behind him.

"Don't use the red towels; those are mine!" Zuko shouts after him. "I'll put some clean ones outside the door!"

"Gotcha!"

Zuko just stands there as the shower starts. Sokka begins singing loudly in his not-superb voice, followed by the sounds of vigorous scrubbing and splashing. Zuko closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, feeling deeply tested.

The two of them have never showered together. He wonders what that would be like now. The bath is spacious—six body jets and two adjustable showerheads, fog-free mirrors, a whirlpool massage tub with fluorescent mood lighting—but Zuko still can't imagine inhabiting that space at the same time as Sokka's long, lean, slick body. Sokka's bossy beauty needs its own fucking atrium. Zuko is torn between wanting to enter the bathroom with him and wanting to flee the entire apartment complex.

What he ends up doing is setting a pile of blue towels by the door and idling by his dresser as he texts Aang.

 **Zuko** : Are you awake?

 **Aang** : ugh. yes

 **Zuko** : WHY are you awake?

 **Aang** : why are YOU awake?  
**Aang** : i just had a nightmare i was waiting at the altar for katara when suddenly a bunch of appa kittens holding wedding rings started pouring down the aisle  
**Aang** : i couldn't find the right ring and there were like. hundreds of appas!!!!!  
**Aang** : it was sooo cute but i woke up crying a little lmao

 **Zuko** : Well, Sokka and I have some good news about a new venue. He wants to go to Waffle House with you and Katara and Suki right now because he's ridiculous. You in?

 **Aang** : omg we're so down. i'll have vegan grits

 **Zuko** : Aang, that's just yeast and small dry corn

 **Aang** : can toph come? kataras on the phone with her now bc she was also having wedding nightmares lol. something about me growing a surprise mustache

 **Zuko** : Yeah, bring her. Meet in half an hour?

 **Aang** : you got it!!

Nice. Aang's indomitable cheer has been tried by recent stressors, so Zuko is pleased that he's up for a morning of spontaneity, just like the old days. It's been ages since they've done Waffle House. Even now, those were always the times Zuko felt most 'normal:' no Black Ivory coffee and Iberian ham; no Almas caviar on tiny pearl spoons. Just Zuko, Aang, their friends, and an obscene amount of hashbrowns and scrambled eggs. Zuko smiles as he sets his phone on the dresser and strips out of yesterday's shirt and jeans.

It's at that moment that Sokka opens the bathroom door and reaches for a towel, stark naked.

"Oh!" they say in unison.

They stare at each other for a long time before both their gazes invariably slip southward, Sokka studying Zuko's briefs with the cartoon panda face on the crotch, Zuko looking directly at Sokka's large penis for a split second before hurling himself, groaning, onto the bed and burying his perspiring face under a pillow.

"A little warning!" he yells, voice muffled.

"I thought you left the room!" Sokka says, flustered. "Were you just standing there listening to me shower? Creepy, Zuko!"

"I was texting Aang!"

"Uh huh!"

"Don't fucking flatter yourself!"

"Why flatter myself, when you can do it for me?" Sokka says, voice growing smug. "You get a nice eyeful there?"

"Define 'nice,'" says Zuko, even as his cheeks grow hotter.

"Did you know your undies say 'Pandamonium!!' across the ass?"

Zuko thrashes wildly until he is entirely covered by his sheets, which still smell like Sokka, sweet and sunny and appetizing. It'd be arousing if he weren't seconds away from dying from embarrassment. He lies very still in his bed and listens to the sounds of Sokka shamelessly toweling off and dressing, jumping up and down to squeeze into his tight jeans, then zipping them with finality.

"Okay, I'm decent," says Sokka. "What did Aang and Katara say?"

He lifts his pillow. "They're coming with Toph. Have you called Suki?"

Suddenly Sokka is shouting with excitement. "Yes! From your shower; your fucking shower! You have a hands-free phone in there! Did you ever, like, take conference calls that way? Was it like a power trip, knowing you were talking to a bunch of Armani suits while you were butt-ass-naked?"

"Is that what gets you going these days, Sokka?"

"I think you know what gets me going," says Sokka.

Loaded pause. They stare at each other, eyes darkening.

"Waffles," they say at the same time.

Katara, Aang, Toph, and Suki are already at the restaurant by the time Sokka and Zuko pull up in the Audi, its shiny red finish picking up the cheery yellows of the sign as they park. Even though Suki and Sokka have already connected a few times since Sokka's return, they greet each other as if they haven't seen each other in decades, Sokka laughing as Suki picks him up and swings him around in circles. When she lets him go, he reaches out to Toph expectantly for a handshake.

"Hi, I'm Sokka."

"Hi, Sokka. I'm blind," says Toph patiently.

"Oh, right," says Sokka, blushing, and grasps her small hand in both of his own. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Right back at you. I'm up to date with all the gossip and looking forward to seeing if you're actually as worth pining over as Zuko once thought you were."

"Cut me some slack," Zuko groans, managing to contain his temper only because Toph used past tense.

"I assure you, I am not," says Sokka. "I'm just me."

It's exactly what Sokka said the day he found out just how wealthy Zuko and his family were, and Zuko can tell when he registers the accidental retrospection, because his expression grows self-conscious. He glances at Zuko, who stares back at him. He wants to reply with something charming, dismissive, but the memory of that exchange has recurred to him so vividly and frequently over the past week that it always manages to catch him off-guard. He looks away, and Sokka looks down. Everyone is watching them. The silence seems impermeable.

Then Aang compulsively leaps to open the door as an icebreaker, misses the curb with one foot, and biffs it onto the sidewalk. Zuko quickly leans over to help him up, but even Katara laughs.

"Thanks, baby, I needed that," she says, affectionately rubbing his head.

"Anything for you, dear," says Aang, sniffling.

"Did you bump your nose?" says Suki. "Let's get you some napkins."

Inside, Aang is happy to let Suki, Katara, and Sokka fuss over him while Zuko and Toph order for the table: half a dozen All-Star Specials of waffles, grits, toast, eggs, and bacon. Orange juice and coffee all around, though Katara opts for decaf, which Toph says is chickenshit of her. Conversation is playful and fluid and inevitably turns into wedding talk after they get their food.

"So this new venue?" asks Katara, licking syrup off her finger.

"The River's Bend Room at Ember Island," says Zuko. "Have you been there?"

"No. Nice name."

"You're going to love it," Sokka promises, mouth full. "Wang Fire and his fiancé thought it was a fabulous—"

Katara kicks him hard under the table. "Did you do the Wang Fire thing again?"

"Wang Fire has a fiancé?" asks Toph shrewdly.

Sokka blinks, gulps, then blushes vibrantly. "Oh, yeah," he says sheepishly. "They, um—met here, actually, and decided to become waffley wedded!"

Aang slaps the table so hard that all the plates rattle, laughing heartily, but no one else's expression changes. Suki arches one beautifully-threaded eyebrow. "So when Fire and his flame booked the venue at Ember Island, did they hold hands and sample wedding cake and explore the honeymoon packages?" she probes.

"It wasn't like that," Zuko snaps. "We were just messing around!"

"Between the sheets, or on top of them?" asks Toph. She and Suki high-five without turning their heads.

"What's his name, Wang?" Aang asks.

"Hotman," says Sokka, dissolving into the jest with a dreamy grin. "Sifu Hotman."

Zuko shoves away from the table and starts to stand, but Katara catches his elbow and tugs him back into his seat. "Shh, we'll stop," she says, repressing a smile. "Aang and I really appreciate all of your help."

"We've downsized a lot," says Zuko. "Your dentist has been uninvited."

"We trust your judgment because it's too late not to."

"Vote of confidence right there," says Sokka.

"I still don't know how things got so out of control," says Aang, mournfully stabbing at his hashbrowns. "We had our family and friends, then suddenly everyone was saying, 'Oh, that one barista wants to come; oh, don't forget the crossing guard; oh, you should invite Katara's Gran Gran's ex.' And we were so flattered that so many people wanted to celebrate the day with us that we couldn't refuse."

"You two are well-loved," Zuko says, and it's true: everyone adores Katara and Aang. They make friends of door-to-door salesmen, maintenance crews, stray cats. The exact opposite of Toph, who is the sworn nemesis of the nearby McDonald's and at least three different laundromats. Zuko studies her as she drinks her orange juice. She flips him off. Zuko jumps and looks away fast.

"What about you, Sokka?" asks Aang. "You must have tons of friends back home."

Sokka hesitates. "Actually, I don't. Not really. A few coworkers and I are on okay terms, but I spend so much time at home that I haven't made any true friends."

 _In five years?_ Zuko thinks, incredulous. Sokka, so gregarious and charismatic and bright, without friends? It doesn't add up. And if Zuko weren't looking for it, for a sign or an explanation of some sort, he would've missed the small touch Katara lays on Sokka's arm, as if in understanding. Zuko supposes that if Sokka were struggling in some way, his family would know about it. He just wonders what created the divide between the Sokka he knew back then and the Sokka who is quiet at home, who falls asleep at the drop of a hat, who gets that fragile look in his eyes when he thinks no one's looking.

"I'm thinking about moving back," says Sokka, staring into his cup of coffee.

It's clear that this is the first anyone is hearing about it, because Katara blinks at him, and Suki drops her silverware and grabs his elbow. "Are you really?" she demands breathlessly. "Don't you dare get my hopes up for nothing!"

"I'm not one hundred percent sure. It's dependent on a few things," Sokka says.

"What things?" asks Suki. "We'll make them happen!"

Sokka chuckles weakly. "Some of it's kind of out of your control, babe. And then there's stuff like job availability. Whether or not I'll be able to afford housing."

"You can live with us!" Aang says immediately.

"With respect and gratitude, your place is the size of a shoebox, and I really don't want to room with newlyweds," says Sokka, laughing with a little more enthusiasm. "I'll look into cost of living around some of the cheaper neighborhoods, but until then—"

"You can stay with me and Azula," says Zuko, sipping his tea. "Or I'll lend you some money for an apartment while you get on your feet."

Everyone turns to stare at him, and the moment is weird as fuck: no one effuses or even smiles; they just sit there looking surprised and uncertain, and Sokka himself adopts a helplessly affectionate expression that is somehow heartbreaking in its sincerity. He says, "You'd do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Zuko says, startled.

"I don't know if you remember this, but I kind of fucked you over when we were teenagers," says Sokka.

"He practically ditched you at the altar," says Katara.

"You drank yourself sick over him every Friday and Saturday for three months," says Aang.

"I don't like his cologne," says Toph. "Too much clove and amaryllis."

"Okay, enough help, guys," says Sokka, frowning. "You'd really want me around, Zuko?"

Zuko thinks about that—but only for a moment. Of _course_ he wants Sokka around. He was livid at his reappearance at first—still is, on so many levels—but the joy of having Sokka back here with him effortlessly outweighs his anger now. Sokka's laughter. Sokka asleep in his bed. Sokka offering him an elbow, and Zuko actually taking it, and wanting to hold on. He turns to look at him, sitting beside him in the booth, their thighs almost touching. He's staring back at Zuko. The two of them share a look, tense on Sokka's part, contemplative on Zuko's.

"I don't mind your presence," is all he says. And maybe his face adds something to that, because Sokka swallows perceptibly, then treats him to a wide, stunning smile.

"That's really, really nice to know," he says. "You were one of the big question marks."

"So you'll move back?" asks Suki eagerly.

"Give me just a few more weeks to see how something pans out, and I'll have a real answer for you."

"What thing?" asks Zuko.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it."

He touches Zuko's hand under the table. Zuko hesitates before opening his palm and letting Sokka lace their fingers together. Sokka's smile broadens, but he doesn't turn to look at Zuko again. Their little secret, then. Zuko smiles too.

"Well, the first problem is who's going to finish all these waffles you over-ordered," says Aang, helping himself to Zuko's unfinished hashbrowns.

"Give 'em to Hotman to go," says Toph. "He's not used to cooking for himself."

"You're not wrong, but Azula has been cooking lately," says Zuko.

"How is that gorgeous piece of work?" asks Suki. "Been worried about her."

"She's doing much better. Thanks."

Katara reaches across the table to grasp Zuko's free hand. "I'm sorry that she was dismissed. I know she was really looking forward to helping you out."

"What?" asks Zuko. "Dismissed from what?"

She freezes. "Her role as a character witness?"

Zuko sits back, feeling abruptly faint. "You mean she's not—when? She told me that she was afraid she'd be a liability for Father, but she never mentioned being dropped from the trial entirely. In fact, she specifically claimed to still be involved."

"If she didn't tell you, she must have a reason," says Suki. "We shouldn't talk about it."

"She probably just didn't want you to feel alone," Toph says.

He grasps onto that openness and hangs on for dear life. "Toph! What do you know? Please tell me."

"Toph, don't," Katara warns.

But Toph tells him, and it's not shit-stirring; it's with genuine remorse and straightforwardness: "At the club the other night, she said that your dad's lawyer called her up and said they no longer desired her involvement. Apparently the prosecution has a very strong new witness, and they needed his character testimony to be bulletproof. That means no neurodivergence—just you. The perfect son. The perfect reference."

Zuko, dizzy with anxiety, brings his hand to his mouth without releasing Sokka's, too distressed to care that he is revealing their under-the-table contact. He presses his trembling lips to Sokka's fingers for comfort. Sokka immediately cups his face in his hand, lets him burrow into it.

"Zuko," he says. "Keep breathing. That's it. Good."

Under Sokka's guidance, he keeps himself under control, measuring his breaths carefully. When he's finally able to speak again, he says, "Right. She didn't tell me because she didn't want me to feel like I'm alone in this."

"And you're not," says Aang firmly. "I'll be there with the spectators, and Katara will be just outside, unless you'd like her in the courtroom with you."

"No," says Zuko. "Just you. Please." He loves Katara, but Aang is a solid core for Zuko: immovable, sturdy, burning with passion and sympathy. He couldn't bear to have anyone else watching if he fucks up. That includes Sokka, but— "Sokka, will you come to the courthouse with Katara that day? Please?"

"Of course I will," Sokka says, brushing his thumb across Zuko's scarred cheek. "I'll be wherever you need me to be."

"Okay," Zuko says. "Okay, I can still do this."

"Yes, you can," Katara agrees. "Azula will be there, too. You're going to do great. Just tell them the truth."

"My father is an outstanding leader," says Zuko mechanically. "He has incredible moral integrity. He was with me an hour before the murder, sorting the transmission maps."

"You're lying," says Toph suddenly.

Everyone turns to her. Zuko stings with neither anger nor indignation, but sheer panic that he manages to lock down only because Sokka's hand is still on his face. He steadies his voice and speaks with dignity, knowing that Sokka can feel him shaking. "Why would you say that?"

"'Outstanding leader,' truth," says Toph. "'Incredible moral integrity.' Lie. 'Sorting the transmission maps.' Lie. You think he did it, don't you? Why are you covering for him?"

"Because I am the perfect son," Zuko says simply.

No one can find anything to say to that.

He stands up gracefully, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and removes enough cash to cover the entire bill. Slipping it under his plate, he draws Sokka's hand into his own again and begins pulling him to the car.

"Goodnight, everyone," he says.

"Oh, uh," Sokka begins, casting them a helpless look as Zuko hauls him away from the table.

They push through the glass doors together. Zuko walks fast, and Sokka stumbles along until they're behind the building, standing in front of the Audi. Then he yanks himself free, hands raised abortively near Zuko's arms, not sure if he should touch him.

"Zuko, god," says Sokka. "I am so, so sorry that—"

Zuko seizes his face between both hands and kisses him deeply, roughly. He tastes like syrup and coffee. Sokka's arms go slack for a moment, hanging limply at his sides, then he reaches up and extricates himself delicately from Zuko's grasp. He strokes one thumb across his damp lips, then under his eyes, sweeping up the moisture. The gesture is clearly of tenderness—not rejection.

"Zuko, you've had a great shock," Sokka says quietly. "You must feel really fucked up right now."

"Yeah," Zuko manages. The tears keep coming, and Sokka keeps wiping them away.

"Let's get you home. Give me your keys."

Zuko passes them over and leans in to kiss Sokka again, but Sokka hums and leans gently aside so that it lands on his jawbone instead. He strokes Zuko's hair off of his forehead and touches his mouth there so softly that Zuko doesn't even register the contact on his numb, tingling skin.

"We'll revisit this later," Sokka says. "For now, it's bedtime."

"Will you sleep with me?" Zuko asks. "Not to—just beside me?"

"I will," says Sokka. "Like I said, 'wherever you need me to be.' I promise."

It's been a long time since Zuko was a passenger in a car. He sits down in shotgun, Sokka behind the wheel. As Sokka drives him home, he stares out the window, marking the pale light of sunrise as it bleeds into the horizon. It's a brand new day, he thinks. And if Sokka's still there when he wakes up, maybe Zuko can be a little less afraid of where it takes him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Probably the roughest one yet. Hard warnings for descriptions of explicit parental incest and abuse. This one's coming out early partly because I'm on vacation and have plenty of writing time, and partly because I wanted to rip off damn the Band-Aid and release some of the building pressure. I hope you enjoy.

Zuko sleeps for three hours facing Sokka, their hands touching on the mattress between him. When he wakes up, Sokka is still deeply asleep, and something outside the room smells sweet. Feeling almost sick with affection, Zuko leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to Sokka's cheekbone. His eyelashes flutter minutely. Zuko wonders if he's dreaming. Then he gets up, takes off his coat—Sokka tucked him in fully dressed when he childishly resisted his sleepwear, and he's hot now, so hot—and goes to confront Azula.

In the kitchen, she's taking two trays of muffins out of the oven, beautiful dark hair spilling past her shoulders as she stoops over. For an instant, face obscured, she looks so much like their mother that Zuko stops in his tracks, dizzy with mourning. Then she glances up, and the moment is broken. One look at his face, and she knows he knows.

Where he expected fury on his own part, there is only resignation and fatigue. He sits down at the counter. After a beat of stillness, Azula removes a saucer from the cupboard and slides it before him, fanning the muffins with an oven mitt.

"Give them a few minutes to cool," she says.

"They smell good," he says.

"New recipe. Cherry chip. I omitted the pecans, though. I know you don't like them."

"That was thoughtful. Thank you."

She's wearing a light, peachy lipstick today, so unlike the rosy gloss she favored as a young teenager, or the dangerous red stains she wore to work. It brings out something gentle in her eyes. "Zuko, I'm sorry," she says. "I don't know why I lied to you. Father's lawyer said my mental illness 'sabotaged' his case." She makes finger-quotes, then lets her hands fall to the counter. "In no small part, I think I was ashamed."

"Fuck him for saying that to you," says Zuko. Their father's attorney is a piece of shit, and Zuko has hated every part of working with him. "I'm only angry I had to hear it through Katara, Suki, and Toph."

"My lips got a little loose after the third martini," says Azula. "I'm not supposed to drink much on my medications, but it was so nice being one of the girls that I got a little carried away. We're going paintballing next Wednesday. I intend to annihilate them."

Zuko smiles wryly. "For the honor of our family."

"What's left of it, at least."

"Of our honor? Or of our family?"

"Either. Both." She places her hand over his on the counter. "I wanted to be there for you."

"You'll be in the gallery with Aang and Uncle Iroh," says Zuko. "That will help tremendously."

"Too much rides on your testimony now."

"I think it would be hard for me to irrevocably screw this up. I just need to tell them that he is a respectable boss, a principled man, and a caring father."

"You don't need to lie," says Azula quietly.

It echoes Aang, it echoes Toph and Mai and Sokka, but when Azula says it, it's backed by history: their father taking a hand to her the single time she failed a test. His sneering at Zuko's accomplishments with the marching band. Making him play the viola until his fingertips bled. He calmed significantly as his children adopted natural and prodigious interests in his business, but he was cold in their childhoods, distant and derisive and almost hateful in turn. There were so many skipped dinners. Missed holidays. He drove their mother away into one evening with two suitcases and a black eye. And then—

_—Zuko a mere month past thirteen, that strange dinner, the kiss of perfume and the lick of flames across the table—_

_An accident_ , Zuko reminds himself firmly. A terrible, terrible accident. His father hadn't meant to be so rough with him. And he had redeemed himself later with broad, gentlemanly hands; with cars and attention and red roses by the four dozen; with a hot mouth and gestures that knew how to wring the pleasure out of Zuko, so sharp and intense that they most felt like pain—

"What are you thinking now?" asks Azula suddenly, her voice as thin and sharp as a knife's blade. "What is going through your mind? Zuko, for the love of god, tell me where the fuck you go when you do this!"

"Do what?" Zuko demands, rising to his feet.

"When you get too quiet!" Azula shouts. "When you say you love him!"

He's shaking. Why is he shaking? "Azula—"

She swipes the saucer off the counter with a vicious backhand. It soars across the room and shatters against the wall, porcelain spreading like shrapnel. "I'm not an idiot, Zuko, and you can't avoid this any longer! What is _happening_ to you?"

Zuko's legs give out on him. He falls to his knees, trembling from head to foot, and Azula is there in an instant, pulling him into her strong arms. She folds him against her and holds on. Zuko clings back to her with bruising desperation, laughter bubbling out of him. "Nothing. Nothing is happening; that's the funny part. He's in prison, so nothing is happening, and I'm still fucking falling apart!"

"Okay," says Azula. "Tell me more."

"He loves me," says Zuko rapidly. "I know he loves me. But Sokka is so different. I kissed him last night when I was confused, and he didn't take advantage of that—he got me home and tucked me into bed and slept beside me. He made sure I was safe. Is that how it's supposed to be? Have I been missing something this whole time?"

Azula has grown very still. Her hand cradles his head, steady as stone. "What do you mean, 'this whole time?' Why do you bring up Sokka now?"

Zuko shudders. He tugs at Azula, at her shoulders, trying to crawl further into her embrace. He feels so fucking small.

"Zuko, I have to hear you say it," says Azula. "This is too serious to just assume."

"I won't," says Zuko.

"Zuko, please!"

His voice cracks. "I _can't!"_

The sound of his own despair breaks him. For the first time in ages, he collapses into sobs that seize his whole body. Azula rocks him and whispers to him, stunned tears dripping from her own eyes, and Zuko lets himself be held as he works out a decade of on-again-off-again trauma. Ten years of unwanted kisses. Ten years of foreign fingers slipping beneath his pajama tops. There were stretches of peace, yes, but they all ended in Zuko roughly bent over, pushed against a wall, crushed against a mattress. Was it ever love? Zuko doesn't even know anymore. He buries his face in Azula's hair as he cries.

It was never like that with Sokka. Sokka was safety, comfort. Tender grinding in hot cars and thrill after thrill, a body just barely taller and leaner than his own, joyous kisses and laughter and arousal. Before they made love at the summerhouse, the most erotic experience of Zuko's life was a long hug outside of Sokka's aunt's house when he first smelled his cologne, the same one he wears today. _Clove and amaryllis._ He'd gone home and touched himself willingly that night, thinking of Sokka's eyes.

His father was ruthlessly preoccupied with the company back then. By the time Zuko came out to him with Sokka at the summerhouse, it'd been many months since their last encounter, and Zuko was willing to believe he had imagined it all. Surely his father had never experienced him the way Sokka did that evening. It'd just been a nightmare, or a misunderstanding, because sex had never been _good_ before. Zuko felt vividly reborn under Sokka's touch.

_Clean._

He remembers the first time his father propositioned him after Sokka's disappearance. It was in the short interim before Aang moved to the state. Zuko was still eighteen. He and his father were drinking tea together, and as Zuko lifted his spoon to stir in the sugar, his father touched his wrist with unmistakable intent.

They fucked that night in his father's sumptuous silk sheets, Zuko on his hands and knees, sobbing for breath. 

Now Zuko holds Azula, unable to stop crying. How can he possibly tell her? What words could there be for thirteen-year-old Zuko pressed over a table, fifteen-year-old Zuko kneeling in the shower, twenty-two-year-old Zuko giving a clumsy handjob in a dark hallway at Ember Island? It's been happening for so long that it's hard to remember there was ever a beginning, and it's nearly impossible to conceive of there being an end.

But something now stands between Zuko and his father: the possibility of a life sentence.

And while Zuko doesn't have the eminence or perhaps even the will to single-handedly send his father to prison, he could at least tell the truth about what he and his father were really doing together the night of Zhao's murder.

If he could only find the fucking strength to say it.

"Zuko, you have to be honest on the stand," says Azula, voice hoarse and reedy. "He doesn't deserve your protection! Don't dishonor yourself for that bastard!"

When Zuko finally gets enough breath, he chokes it out: "Has he ever hurt you?"

He can't see her face. She's still holding him too tightly. "Zuko, I—"

"Azula, tell me. Has he ever hurt you?"

"Not the same way," Azula says at last, and Zuko can't be relieved by the denial because he's too destroyed by her evasion. Rage settles in his bones, searing and fortifying.

_He hurts her. She can't explain it yet, not even to herself, but he fucking hurts her._

"If I can't be brave for myself," he says, pressing his hot, damp cheek to hers, "maybe I can be brave for you. He's never going to lay a hand on you again, Azula. I promise."

She falls apart then too, shatters right there in his arms, and it's his turn to hold her as she throws her arms around his neck and sobs.

He doesn't know how long they sit there on the kitchen floor, but they cry themselves out with each other, and Zuko gets the sense of their broken pieces neatly forming a stronger whole. Brother and sister, once savage rivals, now united against their father's misuse. On a whim, Zuko begins to hum a song their mother used to sing for them when they were sick. It makes Azula huff with laughter, bittersweetness. She joins him as he strokes her back, her voice gorgeous and rough. _I'm free to cry about you every night, / free to dance with someone I don't love and let him hold me tight..._

Eventually he leans back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and exhales sharply when he sees how undone she looks now. Her lashes are clumped with moisture, her lipstick smeared. She sighs too, and swipes at his scarred cheek with one knuckle.

"I feel like I just threw up poison," she says, voice husky.

"Me too."

"Zuko, I had no idea that he was—hurting you. I would've stopped him if I'd known. I'm heartbroken."

"Same. Whatever he did to you, I would die to take back."

"He hasn't won yet," Azula says. "That's what matters."

Zuko nods. He stands slowly, legs creaking with pain from kneeling on the granite tile, then helps her up, catching her when she stumbles and winces. They stare at each other for a long time, and Zuko knows that if someone were to happen upon them now, they'd be startled by their resemblance to each other. The two of them are a family. Not a complete one, not anymore, but a family all the same.

"I love you," says Zuko.

"I love you, too," Azula replies.

"I miss Mother."

"So do I."

Normalcy feels impossible for a terrible moment. Zuko doesn't even know himself anymore the way he is now compromised, shamed. How does one even move on from a disclosure like this?

Then Azula goes to the closet to retrieve a broom, walking steadily, as if nothing has changed, and Zuko finds the strength to draw in a deep breath and sit down again at the counter.

As she sweeps up the pieces of the saucer, Sokka enters the room, feet bare.

"Careful where you step," warns Azula.

He stops in the doorway. "Oh," he says quietly when he sees how red their eyes are, how worn down they look. He vacillates visibly, not sure whether or not to stay. To their relief, he simply settles into a smile. "Sorry I slept so long. Gonna get some major wedding stuff done today. What are your guys' plans?"

"First of all, I need to find someone who will help us eat these muffins," says Azula.

Sokka pretends to consider. "I suppose I could assist you."

So he pulls up a stool at the counter, and the three of them sample Azula's delicious baking. Sokka is especially jocular and kind to make up for their obvious exhaustion. His hand dances at Zuko's back, barely touching him, but there for support. Zuko watches as Azula notes their contact. Her eyes are fiercely protective, especially now, but she seems to approve of Sokka, because she doesn't say anything, even when Sokka forgets himself for an instant and clasps Zuko's hand on the countertop.

Zuko stares at him, filled with helpless longing. _I wish I were untouched for you. I wish he had never laid his hands on me. I wish I'd been uninitiated the day we made love for the first time, so that I could have been entirely yours._

Sokka smiles back when he catches Zuko staring, his expression soft and unaware.

_I wish I could tell you any small piece of this._

*

Zuko gets a text in the evening as he's putting the final touches on Aang and Katara's itinerary. For a long moment, he just sits there, staring at his phone. Could it be the unknown sender? What knowledge might they have now in their terrifying omniscience? Zuko slips into his bedroom to open the message privately—and lets out a deep sigh.

 **Uncle Iroh:** Tea culture has a steep learning curve.

Zuko calls him, pacing the room as it rings. "You offend me," he says, when his uncle picks up.

"I thought you'd like that one," says Uncle Iroh, chuckling. "How are you, Nephew? The Jasmine Dragon misses your graceful touch with the oolongs, but I know how busy you are."

"I've been—" Zuko hesitates, the word "fine" paused on his lips. He has never been able to lie directly to his uncle. "Things have been difficult," he confesses, and is relieved when his uncle, even in his enviable wisdom and instinct, is unable to even guess at the trauma he implied with Azula early that morning.

"Are you and Sokka still on delicate terms?" asks his uncle.

"No. We're doing well."

His voice takes on a note of eagerness. "Oh?"

Zuko chews his lower lip, trying to decide how much to disclose. In the end, his need for a confidant wins out over his reluctance. He closes his door. "Very well, in fact," he says. "He's respecting my need for space, but he's been so patient and considerate and funny and—I still love him, Uncle. That never went away."

His uncle allows a moment of warm silence. Zuko hears him blow lightly on a cup of tea. Then he says, "I believe he has always loved you, too. A love that predates even yours. When I invited him to the shop that afternoon, he told me of his intentions never to pursue you unless you expressed a rational and safe interest, and that hasn't changed since your school days. Your comfort was always paramount. But he didn't want to leave you, Zuko. That much I know for certain."

 _He never wanted to leave you_ , the text message had read. Zuko stills in mid-step, then draws his feet back together, squaring himself. His reflection in the dresser mirror looks tired. He looks away fast.

"Uncle," says Zuko, "have you been sending me texts from another phone?"

"I have not," says his uncle. "I barely know how to operate this one! Why do you ask?"

"I've been receiving ominous correspondences from an anonymous sender."

His uncle pauses again. This time, his silence is tense and thoughtful. "What do they say?" he asks.

"One said, 'He still loves you, you know,'" says Zuko. "Another said, 'He never wanted to leave you.'" He omits the third. _You can't have them both._ He doesn't want to give his uncle that type of context if he doesn't have to; he is not ready. His father or Sokka, painted in the same romantic light. It is shameful. "Do you think the messages could've been meant for someone else?"

"No, I don't think there's anything coincidental about them," says his uncle. "You are a pivotal witness in a high profile criminal case. Someone may be trying to affect your testimony. Or—"

Zuko waits. "Or?"

"Have you considered that this person might simply be a friend of Sokka's, or an ally of yours? Someone who understands how much you care about him?"

"I don't know anyone who would be so cryptic. My friends are direct with me. There'd be no need for anonymity."

"Then it's someone who doesn't want to be known to you."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps they don't feel they have the right to advise. Or that their identity would be unwelcome to you, or would compromise their counsel. They may just desire your happiness."

Zuko loses his temper. "Why do you always assume the best of people?"

"Why do you always assume the worst?" his uncle returns calmly.

"One of the messages was—portentous."

"What did it say?"

"Something no one should know. No one could."

His uncle considers that for a long time. The silence is his deepest yet, and there's nothing kind or playful in it. It is calculating. Intelligent. "What secrets are you keeping from me, Nephew?" he asks, without the bullshit. "If someone is threatening you, I will destroy them."

Zuko sits down on his bed. Tears are abruptly stinging in his eyes. _I have allies_ , he thinks. Azula, Aang, Katara, Sokka. The ladies. His uncle. He is not alone, and all he needs to do is reach out and grasp one of the many hands that is reaching to help him up. And for now, that has to be enough. Because he can't render his traumas again. Not so soon after he bared his soul to his sister.

"I want to tell you," he says at last. "And someday I will. In a week, maybe. If I can be brave."

"Zuko, you are the bravest man I know," says his uncle.

His eyes keep watering. He closes his hand over them. "I've done nothing to earn that assessment."

"Then you don't understand the challenges of morality and faith and fortitude you face every day. You hurt, Zuko. I can see it, and for years, I have searched for the source of your pain, with no success. I find you unreadable in many ways that matter. Someday I hope you will open up to me. Until then, know that you can tell me anything, and that you have my full and unremitting support."

Zuko swallows back his sobs, tears spilling silently from his eyes. He will not allow his uncle to hear him cry. Not yet. And it takes him a long time to compose himself, but his uncle is patient, and waits without speaking until Zuko says, softly, "Thank you, Uncle Iroh."

"You are most welcome. Now, these messages: call me if you receive any more, and accept that I will need you to be open with me if I am to be of any help. Do you feel you are in danger?"

"No. Not physically."

"Okay. Keep an eye out for any strange behaviors or occurrences. Be attentive."

"I will be."

"Wonderful. And with that, I must bid you goodnight. I have to go ball the tapioca. Have a great evening, Zuko—and be brave."

"I will, Uncle." Zuko pauses. "You have to what the what now?"

His uncle hangs up the phone.

"Okay," Zuko says. He puts his own phone in his pocket—and stares at his reflection for the first time that day.

His eyes are still swollen. He would've put an icepack on them if he hadn't spent the afternoon in the living room with Sokka and Azula, playing at casualness. Now he studies himself in the mirror instead of avoiding it, running his hands over his ribcage. _My body_ , he thinks, throat tight. _Not his. Mine._ He explores himself with his fingertips, no eroticism in it, just feeling his face, his shoulders, his hips, his stomach. _This is only where I live. This does not define me any more than the man who touched it._

He changes out of his clothes and into a soft t-shirt and his cotton pajama bottoms—not silk; never silk—and exits his room.

Azula and Sokka are sitting on the couch, laughing about something together. Sokka's feet are tucked up beside him. He looks up and smiles broadly as Zuko approaches him—but his mouth goes slack when Zuko leans over and presses a kiss to his sweet, blush-colored lips.

It's their first real, responsible kiss since their reunion. Nothing indecent to it. Just a touch. Zuko leans back, and finds Sokka staring back at him, red and astonished and thrilled.

"You sure?" he asks, voice cracking.

"I'm sure," says Zuko.

And he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). Thank you very much for reading.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boom. Title drop.
> 
> Warning for panic attack and unhealthy sexual overtures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remind me to stop opening chapters with someone waking up or going to sleep. I'm going to try to do better than that. Thank you all tremendously for being so generous, honest, patient, and thoughtful in your comments. I will do my best to deserve your support.

Sokka has crashed in Zuko's bed several times already, but when Zuko formally asks him to join him there overnight—just to rest—it is with shyness and anxiety. "Thank you," Sokka says to the invite, and parts Zuko's bangs with his fingertips so he can kiss him on the forehead. They lie side by side under the covers without speaking for a long time before Zuko falls asleep.

He dreams of a stormy rehearsal back when he was still marching the quads. Rain spattered off the drum heads with every beat, carrying sharp, tight sounds up into the early evening. Sokka, then just a sophomore and not yet his friend, was stern with focus. He passed before Zuko over and over as the band ran their new sets, calling the steps aloud. Nothing grim or relevant to the recollection. No moment of insight, no interaction. Just Sokka slipping within a few feet of him to the final measures of their first movement, trumpet at his lips, a lovely stranger with damp hair and very blue eyes.

Zuko wakes from the memory, disoriented. He must've stirred, because Sokka cracks open one eye to look at him. "Nightmare?" he murmurs, resting a hand on Zuko's shoulder.

"No," says Zuko. "Just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Sokka yawns. He rolls over, taking most of the bedding with him.

Instead of tugging it back, Zuko scoots in and folds one arm around Sokka's waist, their heads on the same pillow. "I wonder," he hears himself say, words slurring with sleep, "if I always knew you were going to change me." Then he lets his eyes drift shut and pulls Sokka against him, close enough that he hears Sokka return, in a clear whisper, "You changed me the first day I saw you."

*

Zuko's toaster accommodates four slices of bread at the same time, so Sokka burns twelve slices in his attempt to make Zuko breakfast. Azula only loses her temper after the third batch—a testament to her newfound patience—and bakes them a potato and cheese casserole before she returns to work for the first time in a week. While she's gone, they air out the suite and make wedding arrangements. Sokka whips up playlists for the DJ and adjusts content for a new set of programs, and Zuko constructs a registry and purchases gifts online for the attendees: aspen tree growing kits, organic lip balm, and reusable produce bags.

At five o'clock, they sit down together on the couch to relax, pleased with their progress.

"I'll figure out tables and transportation tomorrow," says Sokka. "Can you follow up with the people who haven't RSVPed? There aren't too many of them. Aang's especially antsy about getting in touch with some guy named Bumi."

"I'll do that."

Sokka sighs and props his feet up on the coffee table for a moment before hastily removing them. "Oh, sorry. Your furniture is probably worth more than my life."

"Nothing is worth more than your life," says Zuko. He leans in to lay a kiss on Sokka's mouth—and pauses a breath away. "It _was_ twenty-one-thousand dollars, though. It's an antique."

"Holy fuck," says Sokka. He pecks Zuko, then seizes his shoulders and hurls him down into the cushions, swinging a leg around to straddle him.

"A-and this loveseat was fourteen thousand," Zuko stammers.

"I'm about to depreciate its value," says Sokka, grinning.

He seizes Zuko's chin and tilts it up so he can kiss him, closed-mouth but lingering. A thousand thrills shoot up Zuko's spine. He grabs Sokka's waist and runs one hand up under his shirt, feeling the smooth, warm skin there, and Sokka sighs, eyes flickering shut. He thumbs gently at Zuko's lower lip. Zuko drags him down so they can lie side by side, hips pressed close, and they study each other for a moment, relearning each other in this context. Then Sokka delicately licks the barest tip of Zuko's nose, making him laugh.

"Weirdo," he says.

" _Your_ weirdo now. Kiss me."

Zuko complies. Sokka tongues experimentally at the seam of Zuko's lips, but Zuko keeps them pressed together, nervous, and Sokka backs off. He kisses both of Zuko's cheeks, the corners of his mouth. It's the most chaste, romantic experience Zuko has had in years, and he finds it deeply arousing.

He groans, every inch of him yearning to grind against Sokka's thigh, every instinct of his telling him not to. He feels hot. He feels scared. He feels—almost compromised, somehow; dirty in a hateful, unfair way. And as Sokka strokes him at the arch of his back, kissing him so sweetly and lightly and devotedly that he wants to sob, Zuko stiffens with a sudden, sickening understanding.

He feels like he is cheating on his father.

Zuko pushes away at the same time that Sokka pulls back, a tear beaded at the corner of one eye, though he wipes it away fast.

"What's wrong?" Zuko asks him, panting lightly. He sits up, shaking, and Sokka follows, both hands cupping Zuko's face.

"No clue," Sokka says, laughing a little. "What's wrong with _you?"_

"I don't know," Zuko lies. His stomach hurts.

They stare at each other with care and uncertainty. Zuko focuses on Sokka's warmth until the feelings of illness start to subside, though it takes a while, and something complicated is rolling off of Sokka too, something that perhaps he can't articulate. They have to respect each other's privacy because there is no alternative yet. So much unknown time between them. Eventually Sokka lets go, and Zuko twines their fingers together in his lap. They're both embarrassed.

"That was too fast," says Sokka.

"Yeah. I think so."

"Let's, um. Do you want to watch something on my laptop? I know this cat video—"

And that's how they end up watching cat compilations for an hour, sitting close together, holding hands. Sokka finally gets up to use the bathroom, and that's when Azula comes home looking exhausted, calm, competent, and vengeful all at once.

"I'm taking over Father's company if I have to pry it out of his bastard hands," she announces. "Mai and I are listening around the home base, and it sounds like I have the full support of the grid integrators, the business development directors, the NERC compliance managers, and most of the system design engineers. And if they can't handle a CEO half their age, then perhaps I can install Jeong Jeong. I think he might be willing to head a change of leadership."

"Jeong Jeong is a good choice," says Zuko.

"Not that you need the minutiae," Azula says, arranging her pumps by the front door and toeing on her house slippers.

"It's hardly minutiae, but it's true that I left the company so I didn't have to hear it."

"Sometimes I think you had the right idea."

"The rest of the time, you thrive in the business."

Azula smirks. It's an expression of confidence that Zuko's delighted to see on her. She unfastens her hair as she strolls into the kitchen and checks the refrigerator. "What do you want for supper?"

"No, you're not cooking for us after a hard day back at work. We'll order something."

Sokka exits the bathroom then, yawning and stretching, and Zuko can't help the way he perks up when he sees him; he looks so strong and lithe and beautiful. Sokka opens his eyes and beams at him. It's not a private moment with Azula standing there in the kitchen, but it's a meaningful one, and she rolls her eyes as she thumbs through her contacts list on her phone.

"Chinese, Greek, Mediterranean, Ethiopian—"

"Feel like Badass Burritos?" asks Sokka. "Suki works there part-time."

"It's actually called 'Badass Burritos?'" says Azula.

"Yes." Then, a calculated, teasing risk: "You probably haven't heard of it because it doesn't serve wagyu steak or gold leafed Swedish moose cheese."

"Oh, I've been known to slum it with Ostrea caviar pizza on occasion," says Azula. She has never been precisely wary around Sokka because she knows that she is in the position of power between the two of them, but she smiles at him now for the first real time without restraint. It softens her tired face. "I'd take a burrito. Anything with bacon. Fries on the side."

"You got it, gorgeous." He takes out his phone and sends a quick text. "Can Suki come up when she gets here? We'll be the last delivery of her shift."

"I'll tell the concierge to expect her."

"Do you want to see a menu?" Sokka asks Zuko.

"Okay," says Zuko, if only for the opportunity to stand close to Sokka as he pulls it up. Sokka's phone is old, with cracks spiderwebbed across the screen. Zuko is moved by the impulse to go online and buy him a new one immediately, but he has a feeling that Sokka would share some of the same reservations that Aang and Katara have—apprehension about paying him back and fear of being burdens, yes, but mostly a simple and admirable pride. Zuko largely tries to respect that, though he delights in the opportunities to go all-out for birthdays, holidays—and weddings.

Zuko grins thinking about the honeymoon he has planned for Aang and Katara. If they follow his itinerary, they'll be hitting up all the monasteries, lakes, and mountains they've ever dreamed of, and if they choose instead to take it easy, they'll spend two weeks relaxing at a luxury resort with a spa and a master suite and all the vegan noodle soups they can eat. They'll have to leave for the airport directly after the reception, with no time to argue. Zuko can't wait.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Sokka, peering at him affectionately. "The pastrami burritos are good, but that's a pretty big smile."

"Just excited for the wedding," says Zuko.

And it recurs to him that by the time they exchange vows, the whole mess with the trial and his father will be behind him. It's almost impossible to imagine. Zuko fights off a shudder and smiles at Sokka, centering himself on his quiet, spicy-sweet smell. "I'll take a bronco burrito with potato tots."

"Tater tots, Zuko."

"Potater tots."

"Close enough."

While they wait for Suki and their food, they show Azula some of their wedding plans. She's not part of the actual ceremony like Toph, Suki, and Yue are, but she is of course a member of the bachelorette party, and she reiterates how she intends to decimate the girls at paintball tomorrow. Sokka seems to think Katara and Suki might give her a run for her money.

"All I know is I don't want to be on that field with any of you," he says. "Where are we going for Aang's bachelor party, anyway? Guided meditation? Mindful bike ride through Crescent Park?"

Zuko blinks and pauses. Sokka's invite is still tucked into the Cadillac's glove compartment. In the confusion of his arrival, Zuko never gave it to him.

"Butterfly Pavilion," he says.

"Oh, that's brilliant! I've always wanted to go there!"

"Well, Sunday's your chance." The Sunday before the trial, in a mere five days. Zuko tries not to dwell on that, but it floods his mind, and he loses his smile. Almost immediately, Sokka's hand is on his shoulder, and Azula has his opposite elbow. They sit him down on the couch between them, calm, not calling attention to it.

"A group of butterflies is called a 'flutter,'" says Sokka.

"Apt," says Azula. "Where did you learn that?"

Sokka chuckles. "It was printed under the cap of a bottle of iced tea."

"So you're not really a purveyor of collective nouns."

"I know that a pack of Azulas is called a 'blaze,'" he says, grinning.

"And a group of Zukos?" she presses, smiling back.

Sokka drops his gaze to the ridiculously expensive coffee table, blushing to the tips of his ears. "An incandescence," he says, very quietly.

Zuko goes bright red too, twisting his hands in his lap. He's sure Azula and Sokka can feel him radiating heat.

Then Suki raps at the door, and Sokka gets up fast to answer it.

"Suki!" he cries, like it's been a hundred years since they've seen each other instead of two days. They hug with enthusiasm.

Suki's short hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she's still wearing her Badass Burritos uniform, a gold baseball cap and a green t-shirt under a short black apron. "Incredible digs," she marvels. "I could live in your elevator. Your doorman was almost too appalled by the greasy burrito bag to let me in."

"Father got us these accommodations when we began working for his company," says Azula, awkwardly receiving a hug of her own. "I'd like to move."

It's the first time Zuko is hearing this. "Oh?" he says.

"I'm not saying I could go straight to sleeping on a twin with a 150-count cotton sheet, but I don't need Hungarian goose down or antique chandeliers or the ridiculous goddamn eight-hundred dollar toaster that Sokka badly abused this morning."

"I said I was sorry!"

"Well, if you're in the market for a suburban apartment with great lighting, an enormous kitchen, and an indomitable roommate named Suki, have I got a deal for you," Suki says. "Toph's moving out at the end of the month. Normally Sokka would have dibs on the vacancy, but—"

"I have dibs on Sokka," Zuko agrees—prematurely.

"—he's messy and we—we don't make good—" whatever Suki's sentence was going to be falls off into silence, and she turns to stare at Zuko without expression. Behind her, Sokka makes a belated X with both of his forearms, then sinks his face into his palms. Suki studies Zuko up and down. Slowly. Then one of her hands settles on her hip, and she turns just her head toward Sokka, eyeing him sidelong.

"I was going to tell you," Sokka moans. "It just didn't feel real yet."

"You two are dating, then?" asks Suki, voice unreadable.

"I—possibly?" He looks at Zuko for help, but Zuko is sputtering because he thought Sokka would've told her if it were _official_ in any capacity, and he doesn't want to be any more presumptuous than he already has been. Azula comes to their rescue with a sigh.

"They are flirting with painful ineptitude and platonically sharing a bed."

"Not fucking?" says Suki plainly, directing it toward Zuko.

Zuko's cheeks flame. "No!"

"You didn't take advantage of him?"

"No. No, Suki, I would _never."_

He must be convincing in his vehemence, because Suki only searches his face for a few hard seconds before her grim, protective expression settles into something that is more than relaxed: it is elated. She foists the bag of burritos onto a dismayed Azula, snags Zuko and Sokka around the necks with her elbows, and tugs them into a hug. "Boys, this is wonderful!" she cries. "When did this happen?"

"Last night," says Sokka, beaming wildly now that he knows he's got her blessing. "Azula was telling me about how he used to cry at bath time as a child, then suddenly Zuko was leaning in and kissing me, and my voice cracked spectacularly, and it was all just fantastic!"

"I'm so happy for you both," says Suki. "Especially you, Sokka, having hopefully come to understand the depth of your feelings sometime during the past five years, damn. Does this mean you've forgiven each other?"

That makes both of them pause for different reasons. Azula, however, is on top of it immediately: "What should my brother have to apologize for?" she asks.

Zuko has to agree with the sentiment, but that's not how he would've phrased it. "Azula—"

"No, she's right," says Sokka, smile fading. "Suki, I told you, our breakup was entirely my fault."

Suki hesitates. "You did tell me that," she concedes. "I guess I just have trouble understanding how a relationship as obviously strong and fated as yours could just fall apart on one side. Takes two to tango and all, you know? Can you help me understand, Sokka?"

"Oh yeah!" says Sokka, cheery. "Yeah, of course."

Suki waits with patience, Azula with wariness. Zuko feels a little of both, in addition to a spark of anxiety that only heightens when he sees that the corners of Sokka's mouth are shaking. He stares down at the floor, considering. The silence becomes quickly uncomfortable, and Zuko only allows it to hang on for a moment because he hopes so dearly for a bit of understanding, explanation. He feels they are on some sort of precipice.

But then Sokka swallows visibly, and Zuko knows that no answer is worth hurting him for. He takes Sokka's hand and tugs lightly.

"Will you excuse us?" Zuko says.

"Yes, of course," says Suki, pretty face pained. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"Please don't worry. We're just going to talk for a moment."

Sokka tries for a smile as Zuko guides him away, but it's small and scared and hurting. They walk down the short hallway and into Zuko's bedroom, where he eases the door shut. When he turns around, Sokka is already in the bathroom.

Zuko goes to the threshold and watches his beautiful boyfriend—his _boyfriend,_ god, the wonder of that—lean over the sink to pat water onto his eyes and flushed cheeks. He turns off the taps and rubs his face dry in the crook of his elbow, staring at his reflection. Zuko knows that look, lost and tired and uncomprehending, because he has worn it himself more than once these past few weeks. He touches Sokka's back.

Abruptly, Sokka seizes the front of his shirt and drags him into a hard kiss. Zuko kisses back, startled, but the momentum quickly carries Sokka out of his control: he mouths at Zuko's throat, trembling, free hand searching his chest, his biceps, the smooth contours of his ribcage and abdomen. Zuko doesn't try to push him off, but he does catch his wrists and walk him back against the wall to immobilize him. Sokka shivers, panting. Chin lowered, he looks up at Zuko through wet, clumped eyelashes.

"Fuck me," he pleads.

It sends chills down Zuko's spine. "Sokka. I can't."

"Just let me suck you off, then. Please, Zuko. Please."

"Sokka, shh. Sit down. Hold my hand."

Sokka slides clumsily to the floor and draws his knees to his chest, gripping Zuko's hand so tightly that it turns white. Zuko clings back and joins him on the tile, side by side. After a few deep, gulping breaths, Sokka drops his head onto Zuko's shoulder. He looks shocked. Numb. Zuko is just readying himself to get up and go get Azula or Suki for help when Sokka says, "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize to me," says Zuko.

"I don't know what came over me. I'm so ashamed."

"It's okay. You were—it was—something was very wrong there for a second, but it wasn't your fault."

"Then whose fault was it?" Sokka demands, then pulls up short and starts shaking his head. "Never mind. Don't try to answer that. I know I can't. I've been trying for years."

Zuko shifts their joined hands and laces their fingers together. He wants badly to kiss Sokka, but he's afraid to give him the wrong impression, even though he knows the desperate, frightened moment has passed. He feels sick and confused and just out of the realm of some terrible understanding. Like he is being almost willfully ignorant about something because he can't put the pieces together; doesn't want to, because he's afraid of what it would mean. He wonders if Sokka feels the same way about him, and all of the unspoken history that stretches between them.

"Do you remember," says Sokka, "the first parade we marched in after we started dating? The one for the food festival in Fountain City?"

"Yeah," says Zuko. A smile tugs at his lips. "That was a good day."

"I was so mad when I found out that the trombones and mellos were in front of the trumpets because I wanted to have a perfectly uninhibited view of your ass the whole time."

Zuko blushes. "I mean, I did turn around to conduct."

"Then I got to see your pretty face. God, you looked so good in uniform."

"So did you." Black cowboy hats and trim, straight-legged trousers, red sequined sashes, fire-hot wool jackets with gold epaulettes. The best part of every parade was dragging Sokka behind the instrument trailer, sweeping off his hat, and kissing him. "Our cadence that year was 'Bucket of Grooves,' and our tune was 'Conquest.'"

"You know what my favorite command was?" asks Sokka.

"Band, ten-hut?" asks Zuko, with a flourish. It's the first time he's said those words in years.

"Hey!" Sokka salutes back, chuckling. "No. It was just 'mark time.' Idling there waiting for the big floats to pass, when all the music in the world was possible."

Zuko grins at that. He does kiss Sokka then, pressing their lips together, gentle and lingering.

"We were young back then," Sokka says when he pulls away.

"We're still young," says Zuko.

"Yeah, but a lot has happened."

There's no arguing with that. Zuko leans his head back and lets it rest against the wall, and Sokka follows suit, the two of them sighing in unison and then laughing. They turn to smile at each other. Zuko is filled with nearly paralyzing adoration as he meets Sokka's gaze, his eyes full of such clarity and beauty and damage. Zuko's never going to forget that Sokka solicited sex from him in distress. It spoke of bottomless fear and desperation. Trauma.

 _You'll never hear it from me; that's a promise_ , Sokka said days ago, before they were together again. Zuko wonders if that has changed. He hopes it has. Because someday one of them is going to have to break the silence between them—and Zuko doesn't want to go first.

"A group of Sokkas," says Zuko instead, turning Sokka's fragile, veined wrist upright in his hand, "is called 'a pulse.'"

Sokka flushes, and his heartbeat thumps fast and steady against the pads of Zuko's fingertips as they kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). Really, really, really appreciate that you've gotten so far into this little fic that turned not-so-little. I need to accelerate things a bit soon if I'm going to get through all the content that I want to--this day-by-day pace is going to need to pick up. I also wanted to warn everyone that while this work was always meant to be emotionally-driven, it will get even more soap operatic in the future, and less """"realistic""" as a result. I hope that melodrama is okay. As always, your opinions and concrit mean the world to me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause this is fillerrrr, filler night-- ♫

Though Sokka never makes it back out of the bedroom that night—Zuko brings him his burrito in bed, Sokka laughing and pulling the Wang Fire bit at the exorbitance of it—Zuko, Azula, and Suki have a nice night together.

Suki majored in martial arts and teaches children at the community center, where she met Katara formally, though of course they had Sokka in common and connected at his behest. Zuko still can't believe Sokka caught him off-guard. It would've been so easy: _Katara, do you have a brother who bears an unbelievable resemblance to you and laughs uproariously at the word 'titular?'_ But it's too late to revisit the circumstances of their reunion now, and when it comes down to it, Zuko wouldn't change a thing. They ended up back together. That's the only part that matters.

(Except, perhaps, for the way Suki made Azula blush that night; the way they spent the evening exchanging workout tips and bites of burrito and even makeup. Azula tried to repress a smile as Suki dabbed gloss onto her lips, a red shade called 'Disclosure.' _Stop laughing,_ Suki scolded, giggling herself. _I can't keep my hand steady._

She ended up spending the night, Zuko spreading a blanket across her and Azula as they dozed off in front of the television. Then he went to bed and pressed his mouth to the delicate nape of Sokka's neck and slept, shy and safe and warm.)

At one in the afternoon, after the ladies leave together to go to the paintball arena for Katara's bachelorette party, Zuko and Sokka meet Aang in the park near his apartment with mock-ups for the printer.

"Oh my god," says Sokka in greeting.

"Okay, fine, I was just trying something new," Aang says, swiping off his beanie, mortified.

"No, dude. The hat was good. Just—your cat. Holy shit. I've seen pictures, but he is fucking magical."

Appa is on a harness, purring and tangling the leash around Aang's legs as he nuzzles them. He's wearing gray non-slip booties. Aang laughs shyly. "Oh yeah, Appa's feet get too hot on the pavement in the summer. He gets excited when I get his socks out because he knows it's walk time."

Sokka passes his messenger bag to Zuko and drops to his stomach on the sidewalk to take pictures. Zuko's cheeks tingle with a mixture of exasperation and deep, proud affection. Sokka was never one to hesitate in his joy, even back in band, when he'd openly cheer for their competition from the stands. Watching him take picture after picture of Appa makes Zuko want to haul him away and kiss the goofy grin right off his face. Instead, he represses his own smile and waits for him to stand so he can take his hand. His way of coming forward about their relationship to Aang.

Aang takes a moment to notice, and when he does, he sighs with equal parts playful impatience and honest distress. "You two are exhausting," he asks, a tired smile winning out on his lips. "Yip yip, Appa." 

Appa turns back toward the apartment with his tail up, bouncing perkily along the walkway that leads home. Sokka and Zuko let Aang travel in silence for a thoughtful block. 

"You know, Sokka, Zuko has been through a lot in the past month," says Aang at last.

Zuko winces. "Aang—"

"A _lot_ ," repeats Aang. "I don't know if you know this, but his resignation from the family business predated his father's arrest because he was dealing with so much pressure that he was barely getting three hours of sleep a night. Even when you two were seventeen and eighteen, you must have gotten some idea of the stress that lay ahead of Zuko at school and with the company. That hasn't changed since you've been gone. In fact, it has only gotten worse. Zuko has been responsible for his own mental and physical wellbeing, an entire department of employees, _and_ his family's image since he graduated. You probably haven't seen the tabloids, but—"

"I've seen them," says Sokka. "'Sozin Heir Hits Rock Bottom.' 'Zuko's March, April, and Mai: Pair's Springtime Fling in Italy!'"

Direct quotes. Zuko stares at Sokka. He drops his gaze, embarrassed.

"I did a lot of Googling over the years. I never tried to forget you, Zuko, but I know that doesn't make up for not being here in person. Aang, I'm so glad you had his back. And I don't blame you if you never forgive me because I didn't."

"If Zuko doesn't hold a grudge, then neither will I," says Aang. "But I have to say I want to sometimes, when I remember how messed up Zuko was after you left him, and how that lack of trust for other people has affected him to this very day. But then I see how happy he is now. How I've never seen him smile like that before. And how you have really cool shoes."

Sokka preens, doing a little spin and finger-gunning.

"Please don't do that," says Zuko.

"Okay, baby."

Aang smiles. The light changes, and he scoops Appa into his arms and carries him across the street. As they walk, he says, "If you hurt Zuko again, I will be forced to be unkind to you at family events. I'll crop you out of group photos and leave you the burnt air-fried pickles at the birthday parties and such."

"Aang, I gotta say, these threats don't exactly have me shaking in my Allbirds."

"I realize. Don't worry, Sokka. I'll think of a polite way to thoroughly eradicate you and your gigantic aerosol hairspray carbon footprint," says Aang, with such cheerful, unassailable commitment that Sokka stops short in the street and gets honked at by a truck. Sokka skitters along, grabbing Zuko's hand for comfort. Zuko squeezes back, smiling.

"I am incredibly fortunate to have Aang on my side," he says. "And that's without having ever seen him truly lose his temper."

"I'm probably too—unresisting to have a temper to lose," says Aang, speaking with nervous humility.

"Everyone's got a temper," says Sokka. "Everybody will snap for someone."

They reach Aang and Katara's small apartment. Aang lets Appa out of his harness and goes straight to the kitchen to brew them tea, and Zuko is struck fondly by his easy generosity; his kind, dauntless spirit. He's still got pictures of Zuko hanging on his wall. Zuko sits down and helps Sokka spread out his visuals—the rice paper drawings, color swatches, samples of cardstock, lists of attendees and their dates. It's an impressive amount of work. Aang whistles as he brings the mugs to the table.

"This is amazing, Sokka! Thank you so much for taking it all on! Aw, look, you even drew Appa!"

Not for the first time, Zuko tilts his head at the ink illustration and squints. Still looks like a water bear.

Aang sits down, beaming. "Wow. This wedding is really going to happen, and it's not going to be full of geometric Great Gatsby cakes and modal jazz musicians. Have you gotten in touch with Bumi?"

"Not yet," Zuko admits.

"That's okay. He'll be there."

They spend the next hour making templates on Sokka's computer for the name cards, menus, and programs. Aang has good taste: he picks out cream-colored matte paper and elegant, easy-to-read fonts, handsome borders, artistic spacing. They opt for silvery blue embossing. Katara is going to love it, but she's grabbing dinner with the girls after the party, and then going to Mai's for drinks. Aang says she's still shaken from her last outing, when that man offered her a drugged beverage. But she looks bright and happy in the pic she sends him, the ladies grouped up together wearing camo and face shields, holding up their paintball rifles. Aang shows them her text messages.

 **Sweetie** : Hi hon!  
**Sweetie** : Had a blast (get it?), but mad at Toph, who clearly signed us up just to completely own us.  
**Sweetie** : She kept hitting us in the chests!! Hurt even through the mesh.  
**Sweetie** : Azula is an adorably sore loser.  
**Sweetie** : Hope you're having fun with Z and S.

Aang sighs rapturously and clutches the phone to his chest. "I love her," he declares.

"Surmised as much," says Zuko.

"I don't know what I did to deserve her."

"Aang, you are the only person in the world who deserves my sister," says Sokka. "I don't say that lightly. She was there for me through some really intense stuff when I was seventeen, even when Dad wasn't. Without exaggeration, I would not be alive without her. She is incredible. And I know that you understand this, and are going to make her happy, because you're pretty phenomenal yourself."

Aang sniffles once, then throws his arms around Sokka's neck in a firm, loving hug. "Brother!" he cries.

"Broski," says Sokka, clinging back.

Zuko sits there awkwardly, alone, in the moment before Aang catches him from the other side, pulling the three of them together. Aang sighs contentedly and closes his eyes. "This is true happiness," he declares. On the table's surface—no longer any need to hide below it—Sokka takes Zuko's hand.

"It's going to be okay," says Sokka, intentionally addressing a large array of events: the bachelor party, the wedding, the court date. It gives Zuko a little shudder of emotion, and he manages a smile.

"It will be," he says.

"We're family. We can make it through anything," says Aang.

That's a little simple, but if he argued, Aang would be quick to point out that Zuko has made it through one hundred percent of his trauma so far, even if he doesn't know the extent of it.

 _Aang,_ Zuko remembers suddenly. He's going to be in the gallery with Azula and Uncle Iroh on Monday. If Zuko says what he needs to say on the stand, Aang is going to hear about his father. The thought terrifies him—but there's a spark of something else in that knowledge. An anticipation of liberation, somehow. No more secrets between them. Zuko stares at Aang, his wide smile that lights up the entire room, and thinks about how hard it will be to be the one to quell it.

But those are thoughts for next week. Right now they've got mockups and menus, raised violet lettering and Sokka's innocently simple sketches. Zuko squeezes Sokka's hand, presses his forehead to Aang's.

He's going to make it through this.

There are no other options.

*

The following days go by in a soft, private blur. Azula spends her mornings and afternoons at work and her evenings at Suki and Toph's—now _there's_ a development that Zuko wants to hear more about, but it's new and tender, and he doesn't want Azula to spook—so Zuko and Sokka are alone in the penthouse often, watching videos together or having tea or working on the wedding. It is shy and chaste. A delicate courtship they never had, owing to the fire of their first kisses in the band room.

Zuko makes a move on Saturday as they explore websites for local florists, laptop screens filled with camellias. Under the table, he runs his socked foot carefully up one of Sokka's pant legs, touching his ankle lightly with his toes.

Sokka blushes and looks up at him. "Hm," he says. "Wonder what that is. Do we own a cat?"

"We do not," says Zuko.

"I'd like to adopt one someday with you. A cute old shelter cat. Maybe a tabby. Or—is that too forward? Too much of a commitment? I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I'd really—"

"You're babbling, Sokka. I'm trying to seduce you."

"Oh," says Sokka. "Okay."

Zuko leans forward and kisses him carefully on the lips. Sokka sighs, shoving his laptop aside and scooting his chair closer so he can stroke Zuko's face. Zuko was not sensitive about his scarring in the past, but it's been awhile, and its relevance to his father makes him flinch now. Sokka stops.

"Not there?" he asks.

"No, it's fine. You just surprised me. People don't like to touch it."

"People," Sokka echoes, frowning. He leans back in his chair, chewing his lower lip, as if he's not quite sure he wants to know. But his curiosity wins out, and he says, "Have there—been many? Since I've been gone?"

Zuko's quiet, remembering. Song and Jin were lovely, and he took them to dinner once each, at Mai's behest. Of course nothing romantic or sexual came of those evenings, but their kindness had left a mark on him—as had their caution. Perhaps they sensed in him something damaged or frightened, because they were deliberate, distanced. Both of them had cupped the uninjured side of his face to give him a farewell kiss, even though they were right-handed. Sokka reaches back up to stroke his left cheek, unabashed.

And Zuko thinks about his father.

_No. Not now, please. He doesn't count, not in the way Sokka's asking._

But isn't it true that there was honest love between them? Roses in red waxed paper, stripped of thorns. Kisses in the afterglow, boxes of expensive chocolate. The cars. The penthouse—

_Azula._

_Remember her. Remember what he did to her, what she can't even say. Remember that I couldn't say anything either; that she was forced to infer because there are no words for being fourteen, for being fifteen, that time two months ago, at the office, pushed over his desk—the reason I had to quit—_

Zuko leans into Sokka's touch, eyes closed.

"You're safe here, Zuko," says Sokka. "You're safe in whatever you do or don't tell me."

_You make me wish I were clean._

"Two dates," Zuko says, after a long moment, touching Sokka's mouth with his thumb. "Both women. Nothing happened." He touches Sokka's cheekbone, and he knows it is the one that was once fractured, because he can feel a tiny break in its curve, imperceptible without pressure. "And for you? That one bastard. Anyone else?"

Sokka smiles. It's bizarre, an entirely wrong expression for the moment, and it dies quickly. He looks away. "I don't want to answer you," he says slowly, "because I don't want to lie."

It doesn't hurt Zuko. Sokka's life is his own. "Okay."

"It's not what you think, but I can't talk about it," says Sokka, suddenly pleading. "Does that make sense?"

"Sokka, it's all right. Breathe."

Sokka sucks in a deep breath and holds it. Then he nods. Zuko toes are still touching his ankle, and Sokka resets his knee between Zuko's, leaning forward and kissing him with gentle, persistent pressure. Zuko strokes Sokka's hair behind his ear, tracing the star-shaped studs along its shell. They smile. Sokka's hand rests on Zuko's thigh for balance, not as an advance.

"I love you," Sokka says abruptly.

Zuko pauses. It's the first time Sokka has said it since his return, and Zuko feels like he should be stunned by it, or hurt by it, or thrilled by it. But it only feels natural. Like something Sokka would say as he comes home from work at the post office; would drop casually against the back of Zuko's neck as Zuko stirs soup on their stove. It's expected. Domestic. Easy as a fact.

He presses their mouths together again. "I love you too," Zuko says.

Sokka's eyes grow huge and bright. He grins wildly. Then he's tackling Zuko out of his chair, one hand closed around the back of his head so he doesn't strike it on the tile, straddling him there on the ground as he seizes his face and kisses the hell out of him. He presses his tongue against Zuko's lips, and this time Zuko parts them. Their deep, slow kisses turn quickly messy. Zuko closes an arm around Sokka's waist and tries to roll him over, but Sokka resists, and the two of them tussle, laughing.

On the table, Zuko's cell phone begins to ring.

"Oh my god," Sokka moans into his mouth. "Nooo!"

"I have to get that," says Zuko, panting. "A lot's going on. It could be important."

"Call them back!"

"When, exactly? It's not like I'm going to ever 'finish' kissing you," he says, and it's not supposed to be sexy, but Sokka groans and covers his groin with both hands. Zuko laughs and kisses him one last time. Then he stands up and answers his phone.

"This is Zuko."

"Hey, Fire Lord," greets a smooth, familiar voice.

Zuko smiles. "Freedom Fighter scoundrel. How are you, Jet?"

"Dynamite. You sound winded. Am I interrupting something?"

"Just—working out," Zuko lies. From the floor, Sokka chuckles and gives him a sultry stare, batting his long eyelashes. Zuko looks away, blushing. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering what you got Aang for tomorrow. I bought him a bunch of socks with cute animals on them, but it occurred to me that you might be planning to show me up with a three-thousand dollar wristwatch or something. Should I get him anything else? I got him and Katara a Himalayan salt lamp for the actual wedding."

"Those both sound like really thoughtful gifts," says Zuko. "He needs new socks. I got him a pair of vegan running shoes."

"That seems appropriate and not terribly over budget."

"And a two-week honeymoon to Tibet."

"Damn it, Zuko!"

"Jet, he's going to be so happy to see us all together that the presents aren't going to matter to him. As long as you didn't insult him with a leather jacket or an engraved flask, he'll be thrilled."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you and the others," Jet says, tentatively warm.

"Same," says Zuko, smiling.

"Do you know anything about Katara's brother? Is he going to ruin the vibe?"

Zuko makes the mistake of looking back down at Sokka with obvious scrutiny. Sokka sits up on one elbow. "Is he asking about me?" Sokka demands. "Tell him I'm awesome!"

"He's a good guy," says Zuko, nervous, because he doesn't straight out want to go, _He is the most beautiful person I have ever seen, and I want to spend the rest of my life kissing him and making him coffee and sleeping with my head on his pillow._ But honesty also compels him to add, "Don't freak out, but he was, uh—actually the catalyst behind the night of the Fire Lord drinking binge. The One Who Got Away, as it happens."

Long pause. Then Jet says, _"He's what?"_ so loudly that Sokka hears it from the ground and winces, smacking his forehead.

"I said 'don't freak out!'"

"How did you manage to forgive him?" Jet asks. "How are you going to stand being in the same fucking building as him? What a douche! And I say this as someone who once threw you over the hood of a moving car in a restaurant parking lot."

"Why do you even care?" asks Zuko, defensive.

Jet hesitates again, but this time the silence is uncertain. Almost shy. "Because, while we've had our differences, I still think you're a good person," says Jet finally. "And because I've been following the news about your father, and think that the last thing you need now is some bastard ex showing up and treating you like you aren't even worth saying goodbye to. Even _I_ said my farewells."

"In the form of writing 'fuck off' in the snow on my windshield," says Zuko.

"Hey, I never said it was a _classy_ farewell."

Sokka is standing up now, shrinking back towards the counter, as if in fear of reprehension. But Zuko takes his wrist and pulls him closer, rubbing his lips gently against his before lacing their fingers together.

"Jet, I appreciate the concern, but we're okay now," Zuko says. "More than okay, really. We've talked a lot of things out, and while I don't know as much as I'd like to about why he left, I'm starting to understand that it was less about me and more about something that he had to overcome for himself. Is still overcoming. We're all injured, is what I guess I mean. You and me and him and even Aang, in ways from his childhood that he'll never admit. And maybe that should be unifying instead of divisive. Mostly I think I'm tired of being angry."

He hasn't articulated that before, even to himself, and it's like a window opening up somewhere inside him. He feels instantly stronger. Not repaired, but disinfected. And that's almost as good.

"All right," Jet says, after a moment. His voice has changed. It's kinder now. "If you're okay, then that's what matters. I want you to be happy."

"Thank you, Jet," says Zuko, and means it deeply. "Sokka's a great guy. You're going to like him."

"If he and I can both play nice," says Jet. Zuko can practically see his smirk. "Meet you tomorrow for lunch, right?"

"Yeah, one o'clock at Kirachu."

"See you then, Zuko."

"See you. Thanks for your support."

He hangs up, and immediately Sokka's all over him again, kissing him along his neck and jaw and mouth. "You called me 'a great guy,'" he says, breathless with gratitude.

"I only told him the truth—mmph. Sokka, at least take me to the couch if you're going to—"

Sokka pulls one of Zuko's arms around his neck, sweeps an elbow under his knees, and carries him to the couch, where he deposits him none-too-gently and climbs on top of him. They kiss hungrily. It's different from the last time they made out here, and they still separate before they can touch each other's burgeoning erections, but it feels safe and in their control and innocent. Sokka disentangles himself from Zuko, sweaty and grinning.

"I know tomorrow is about Aang, but I am going to treat you like a prince," Sokka says.

"It's going to be a good day," says Zuko, smiling. Instantly the strain and anticipation of Monday begins to settle in his shoulders, and Sokka sees it, reaching out to massage them gently.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No," says Zuko. "I want to kiss you some more, order dinner for you, and help you wrap that terribly-named gift you got Aang."

Sokka cracks up. "The nut milk maker!"

Zuko laughs too, tilting forward to kiss him again.

Tomorrow will be beautiful, he thinks, tonguing softly at Sokka's full lips. Butterflies and fauna and sunshine pouring through the glass ceilings. Aang and Jet have his back, which means that Teo and Haru will, too. On Monday, he'll be a terrified witness with horrific truths to tell—if he can even work up the courage to put them to words—but before then, there will be fresh air, and Sokka's hair growing golden in the light, and bright wings in the shelter of sweet, open-faced flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/)! I'm so sorry, review replies will be a teeny bit late, but I promise to get to them very soon. I just have to crash after this. Cats took my spots in the bed, so I haven't had a chance to sleep yet. Hope you are all doing well, and thank you so much for all the support.
> 
> P.S. Upped the rating in anticipation of a few future scenes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aang wouldn't really encourage those jokes. Or--wood he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. The next one is going to be a hard one for me to write, but I'm going to do my best, and hope that its inaccuracies and liberties don't disenchant you.
> 
> I have a terrible feeling I'm forgetting something plot-important in this chapter. If I retcon/add anything, I'll mention of it at the end of the chapter. This is what you get for not keeping notes.
> 
> Warning for explicit oral sex.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the wonderful support!!

Everyone beats Aang to Kirachu, which means Zuko gets tasked with introductions in front of the restaurant. He does the awkward back-pat thing with Jet, and fistbumps Teo and Haru (who has shaved off the appalling mustache he had a few years back). "It's really good to see you guys," Zuko says. "Been a long time, hasn't it? Sokka, this is Jet, Haru, and Teo. Gentlemen, Sokka is Katara's older brother."

"Hey man," says Teo, with his easy grin. "That's a big present. What did you get him?"

"A nut milk maker," Sokka says, and keeps a straight face in the two seconds before everyone guffaws. So it's going to be that kind of bachelor party, despite Zuko's best efforts to keep it classy. He rolls his eyes and takes Sokka's hand after he finishes shaking with everyone. No one comments, but their smiles grow warmer, even Jet's.

"So where's the groom-to-be?" he asks.

"My uncle was going to drop him off from work. They must've had a rush." Zuko shifts, guilty about his lack of commitment to the Jasmine Dragon. He'll pick up some hours soon to make up for it. He has to admit that he didn't realize it would be so difficult—the few shifts he'd taken last month were full of burns, incorrect orders, and frustration over his inability to steep the tea to his uncle's magical equilibrium. Aang's still learning to prepare the food items that were recently added to the menu, but he took to the beverages immediately back when the shop first opened. A talented, spirited employee. Zuko admires him and cares for him deeply, for so many reasons.

And he's not the only one, because when Aang rolls up in Uncle's old station wagon, the boys crowd him, applauding and whistling and clapping him on the shoulders. Aang is taken aback at first, then joyously swept into their energy. He yells along with them and leaps into their hugs. "Guys, I'm getting married!" he shouts, to their great delight.

"Three cheers!" Jet calls, and as they celebrate and make an enormous scene, Zuko ducks his head and tries to slip behind his uncle to hide. The old bastard steps away and joins in the revelries himself until his back twinges.

"Ah. To be young again," says his uncle, wincing.

"Spend the day with us!" Aang begs.

"No, no, I would only cramp your style. You will have more fun without me."

"Do you know what we're doing?" Aang's voice takes on a faint note of disappointment. "Is it laser tag?"

"It's not fucking laser tag!" Zuko roars.

"It's quite a treat," says his uncle. He pats Aang's back, then Zuko's—then Sokka's, lingeringly. Zuko notes the contact, confused, but Sokka doesn't react with surprise—just slips his uncle a small, grateful smile when their glances lock for a split second. Then Uncle Iroh is turning around to climb back into his car, limping theatrically. "Have a great day, boys!"

The others chorus their goodbyes. Sokka calls him 'dude.' Then Aang swings back around, grinning so brightly that Zuko feels his throat tighten with emotion, and he spreads his arms to accept an exclusive Best Man hug from Aang. They must both be kind of starved for friendly contact, because they hold on for a few beats longer than necessary. Aang smells so good, familiar and fresh with laundry soap and the Jasmine Dragon's baking. Zuko inhales the scent from his clean, dark hair.

"I've never been to this restaurant," says Aang, when they pull apart. He's wearing his yellow backpack and scuffed sneakers; he looks nervous. "It seems fancy. Am I underdressed?"

"You can wear anything that makes you comfortable. They know my family here," says Zuko, embarrassed to play that card, and even more embarrassed when he opens the door and the maître d'hôtel immediately dips into a bizarre, deep bow.

"Master Zuko! Welcome!"

"Thanks," says Zuko, cringing.

"We truly appreciate your choosing Kirachu for your event! This way, please!"

He passes by the large, elevated booth in the center of the dining room and leads them to a quiet table in the corner, sunshine sweeping in through the gauzy curtains of the floor-length windows. It is tastefully decorated with a small floral centerpiece that hosts yellow daisies and a congratulatory note from the restaurant's owner. Aang's eyes grow a little watery as he reads it. He's such an easy target today; Zuko can't wait to get him around the butterflies. They make him sit at the ornate head of the table.

Their maple waters come with lemon wedges and delicate paper umbrellas. Zuko starts to get anxious. "Okay, I know this place is pretentious, Aang, but they have a really diverse cruelty-free menu that I thought you'd enjoy, and I wanted to make up for that time that I wouldn't get fritters with you—"

"You wouldn't get fritters with him?" Jet says incredulously. "Asshole!"

"Jet, I swear to God—"

"Zuko, I think it's fantastic," says Aang, gripping his hand. "The idea of you putting this much thought toward me makes me feel so warm."

"You're worth it, Aang," says Zuko. Then, to mitigate the sentimentalism: "You should open your presents."

So Aang does. He loves the socks Jet got him, and insists on putting on a pair immediately with Zuko's gift of new shoes (his old tattered ones have actual holes in the soles). Teo got him an engraved thermos; Haru a set of handmade olive wood bowls and bamboo straws. The standard nut milk jokes go around after he opens Sokka's present, and Aang's so completely oblivious to them that they carry on a bit longer than necessary, waiting for him to catch on. He never does. He reaches into his backpack and produces five parcels, neatly swathed in blue paper.

"I got you presents too!" he says.

Groans go up around the table. "Aang, it's _your_ bachelor party," says Teo.

"I just wanted to thank you guys for sharing this occasion with me. Open them!"

Zuko unwraps his. Inside is a small burlap bag filled with two needle-felted, spherical penguins. "Very cute. What are they?" he asks.

"They replace single-use, chemical-filled dryer sheets," says Aang. "Each one is good for hundreds of loads of laundry, and they reduce drying time by up to forty percent!"

Enthusiastic thank yous go up around the table. Zuko is smiling, charmed, right up until Sokka says, "This is the second cutest pair of balls I've ever seen."

Zuko kicks him so hard that the whole table rattles.

 _"Ow!_ Come on, we've been doing nut jokes all day."

"You know what you did wrong," Zuko whispers.

"Timing makes a vast difference," says Aang at normal volume, but he says it _just enough_ like 'vas deferens' that they all stop short and stare at him with suspicion and astonishment. Aang takes a slow sip of water and smiles. They sit in silence for a moment. "I love you guys," he says at last.

"We love you too," says Zuko, shaking his head. "You and your penguin balls."

Together, they order watermelon salad with jalapeno vinaigrette, cauliflower wings, shoestring fries and walnut parmesan, house-smoked barbecue jackfruit sliders. Conversation is lively and informative: Haru talks about building houses with his father in underfunded districts of the state, and Teo shows them a new app he's working on that allows engineers to simulate digital and analog circuits. Jet relays congratulations from Pipsqueak and tells them about his volunteer work. And Sokka is finally open about his dissatisfaction back home.

"The place just doesn't vibe with me. I don't actively feel lonely—don't actively feel much of anything—but then I come back here, and it's like there's something actually at stake. I guess I've missed that sense of emotional responsibility."

"You should move back," Jet encourages—a final sign of approval. The others murmur their agreement.

"And we definitely need to get together like this more often," says Haru. "Sorry we've been so busy, Aang. I hope we haven't left you too high and dry."

"No, I love that you all have your own lives," says Aang. "It's inspiring."

"Just can't believe Baby Aang is going to be the first of us to tie the knot," says Teo, grinning.

Aang blushes. "Well, when you meet your Katara, you never let them go." And that would be a casual, non-targeted statement but for the little pat he places on Zuko's knee under the table. Zuko turns to smile at Sokka, and catches him staring back at him, his expression bright and fond.

After a sumptuous dessert of coconut milk ice cream and cashew cheesecake, Zuko produces a blindfold and forces Aang to wear it as they drive to the pavilion. Aang is insufferable the entire time, making wildly inaccurate and increasingly insulting guesses about their destination—"Is it fishing? I don't want to fish! Even catch-and-release lowers their chance of survival!"—and Zuko gives Sokka his invite from the glove compartment. Sokka is quiet for a moment after he opens it.

"This is really, really lovely, Zuko. I didn't know you were so creative."

"Katara did the calligraphy on the envelopes," he says.

"But you designed it, didn't you? It's like a piece of artwork."

"Thanks," says Zuko, cheeks warm. Then, loudly, baiting: "Let's just hope Aang enjoys the shooting range as much as we do!"

Aang whines in the backseat.

Together, they guide him through the front doors of the pavilion and into the main atrium, which is quiet but for the ambient sounds of running water and the warm misting system. It's more beautiful here than Zuko imagined: butterflies speckle the air and flora in colorful abundance, the glass ceilings glimmer in the sunlight, and the paved stone walkways are, as planned, accessible for Teo. Everyone waits there in reverent silence as Zuko unfastens Aang's blindfold.

After Aang regains his bearings and blinks his vision clear, he visibly tears up.

"Zuko, this—it's—"

"Do you like it?" Zuko asks, feeling suddenly shy.

Wordlessly, Aang turns around and places both arms around Zuko's neck, tugging him into the tenderest of hugs. They stand there for a long time, and Zuko feels his eyes begin stinging too. Aang, his best friend. The person who was there for him throughout the worst, loneliest days of his life. He is the purest human being Zuko knows, and he wishes for him all the happiness in the world.

When they separate, a fuzzy orange butterfly lands on the crest of Zuko's cheek. 

"Oh, hello," he says.

"Guess they sensed something sweet," says Aang, laughing.

The large room is broken up into habitats, each boasting different trees and flowers and colors. Plaques along the railings list facts about the butterflies—scientific names, families, trivia—and Zuko pauses to read about their lifespans. Most species only live a few weeks, but some monarchs can survive for almost a year. Sokka, reading over his shoulder, says, "Royalty is resilient, Prince Zuko."

Zuko smiles. Teo and Haru are studying an egg-laden leaf further down the path, Jet is taking pictures with his phone, and Aang is exploring eagerly up ahead, surrounded by a huge cloud of swallowtails, like some sort of prophet. Zuko and Sokka are far enough away that Zuko feels comfortable sneaking a slow, gentle kiss, and Sokka sighs happily. He places both hands on Zuko's hips and guides him behind a tree trunk. Instead of leaning back in, though, he stays at a distance, touching his hair and studying him with such open love that Zuko's heart starts pounding.

"You're perfect," says Sokka. "You know that?"

"Wh—no. Stop it."

"You're perfect and brave and kind and strong."

He tries to cover his face, but Sokka draws his hands into his own and reverently kisses his knuckles, like one would a king's ring. His eyes are bluer than the lupine growing in one of the small havens behind him. Zuko swallows, moved and faintly aroused. When Sokka straightens, Zuko catches his cheeks and kisses him hard on the mouth.

"I don't know if I can do it," says Zuko, whispering against Sokka's neck. "Testify honestly, I mean."

Sokka doesn't know the extent of that, the unspeakable things Zuko could admit to on the stand—truths that go far beyond simply not corroborating his father's honor—but his answer is simple and applicable: "You'll do what you think is right. I just hope it's what's right for _you_ , and not for _him_. I want you to come out of this feeling as clean and uncompromised as possible."

"I love my father," Zuko insists, and saying it in Sokka's embrace almost makes him literally sick, but Sokka holds him and shushes him and rubs his back lightly until the wave of nausea passes. Zuko catches his breath slowly, clinging to Sokka with shaky arms. They stand there for a while. Then Sokka smiles.

"Listen to this," he says, reading off one of the plaques: "'Inside the chrysalis, a butterfly develops with its wings collapsed around its body. When it emerges from its pupal casing, its wings are small and shriveled, and the butterfly must cycle body fluid through its veins in order to expand them. After the wings are fully expanded, the butterfly rests for several hours until its body is dry and hard. Then it is finally able to take flight.'"

"A little on the nose, don't you think?" asks Zuko. "Are you saying my wings will stay shriveled until I tell the truth about my family?"

"Hey, I'm just reading," says Sokka, grinning.

He shakes his head fondly. When he turns away, Sokka catches his wrist.

"You have fully-formed wings," Sokka says, with adorable sincerity. "They can take you anywhere."

Zuko smiles back at him. "The only place I want to be," he says, "is by your side."

And that's where he stays for the rest of the day. The boys spend hours taking pictures in the courtyard. Teo takes a small notebook from his front pocket and produces some beautiful sketches of the skippers. On the opposite end of the conservatory, a glass enclosure displays dozens of chrysalises in various forms of maturity, and they are delighted to witness one of the hairstreaks emerging from its case.

Butterflies land on Aang wherever he goes. He's like a Disney princess. Zuko gets a great shot of him with three on his fingertips and one on his nose, and he texts it to Katara.

 **Katara** : Pretty fly for a bright guy.  
**Zuko** : You're worse than my uncle.

That's when he sees the unread message.

 **Unknown sender** : Please forgive the theatrics. If I could've spoken to you directly, I would have, but I should never have contacted you. You are so strong. You are going to make it through this. I wish you all the best.

Zuko stares at the text for long enough that Aang and the others realize something is wrong. "Zuko, what is it?" Aang asks.

He is not as chilled as he was by the last few messages, because this one sounds like a goodbye, but he is far from comforted. It confirms that this person knows that he is a participant in the trial—a fact that, despite the notoriety of the case, was not made public. It implies that they are involved with the proceedings as well. But they are not trying to change his mind about anything. Not trying to influence his testimony. And they called him 'strong.' Despite everything, the terror and paranoia that these messages have incited, the encouragement still means something to Zuko.

He wonders how desperate that makes him.

"It's nothing," says Zuko, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Legal stuff."

It was meant as a dismissal, but his friends are too good to let that go. Jet lightly bumps his shoulder with his own, and Sokka puts a hand on his back. "You must feel enormous pressure," says Haru. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I appreciate it, but my father's lawyer is calling me tonight. That's about as much talking-about-it that I think I can handle today," says Zuko.

"We're here for you, you know," says Teo.

"I do know that." Zuko smiles. It feels good, refreshing and real. "Thank you."

Only Aang is quiet, and his conspicuous silence is louder than a shout. They turn to him, and Zuko feels again a wave of love for him, this beautiful soul with his wide, impassioned eyes, butterflies floating around him in a colorful cloud. He meets Zuko's gaze directly as he says, "I'm with you. No matter what." Not speaking for anyone else. A message solely from Zuko's best friend. Zuko's throat constricts.

"Aang," he says. And because he can't think of anything that can express his depth of feeling, he says, "You have a butterfly on your ear."

Aang laughs. "This has been the most amazing day ever."

Their group parts ways shortly thereafter with promises to get together more often and to have a blast at the wedding in—god. Only two more weeks now. Two weeks and Aang and Katara will have the celebration they deserve in the River's Bend Room on Ember Island, and Zuko's excitement to see their first dance almost trumps the fear of everything else.

Zuko and Sokka return to the penthouse. Azula is working late again, perhaps as a defense against tomorrow's stress, but she left them dinner in the fridge. Badass Burritos again. Very interesting. Zuko and Sokka eat while Zuko waits for his phone call from his father's lawyer, a cold-eyed, business-like man named Mung who Zuko instinctually despises.

He has been in email contact with Zuko throughout this process. Zuko checks them a few times a day, reading about their side of counteractive evidence, witnesses (which no longer include Azula), and what is expected of him on the stand. Mung seems to think it would be wise to recount specific instances that demonstrate his father's benevolence and good character—times that were few and far between, if one were to be honest about it. They've settled on discussing his donations to cancer research facilities and a brief account of what happened the evening of the murder, not as an alibi, but as a means of filling in a timeline. His father's real defense comes in the form of a phone call he purportedly took while the murder was taking place at Zhao's home.

Zuko hates that. His time with his father that night wasn't even useful to him as an excuse. Just another instance of shame and pain. And he can't even fathom the possibility of a guilty verdict. Unless the prosecution's secret witness is untouchable, his father will walk free. He is damn near invulnerable in the eyes of society. Incriminating him on the stand could be literal suicide.

But Zuko hasn't had time to think about dying. Not when he's so concerned these days about living—really living—for the first time in five years.

He and Sokka are making out on his bed in their pajamas, slowly and passionately and luxuriantly, when Mung calls.

"This is Zuko," he says, extricating himself from Sokka.

"Tomorrow's the big day," says Mung. "Are you ready?"

"Of course I am," says Zuko.

"You understand that this case may take weeks, even if your involvement is only required for a single session," says Mung. "The prosecution will make its case first, and then there will be a short recess. The public will..."

This is all shit that Zuko has heard before. He nods and nods to himself, growing irritated and distressed, sitting on the edge of his bed with his chin propped in his hand.

He doesn't realize that Sokka has even moved until he is suddenly kneeling on the carpet before Zuko, a sly smile on his face, reaching for the zipper on his trousers.

Zuko covers the receiver. "Sokka!" he whispers.

"Shhh," Sokka soothes. He unfastens Zuko's pants, deliciously slow, and spreads the opening in his briefs to release his member. Zuko has lost the beginnings of the erection he had when he and Sokka were kissing, but he perks up with interest at the touch of Sokka's textured fingertips. Sokka kisses him softly, nuzzling into his dark, trimmed pubic hair.

Mung is talking about the dress code now, but all Zuko can think of is Sokka pushing off tomorrow's suit jacket, undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. Pulling it out of his waistband. Unbuckling his belt. But reality is stronger now when Sokka leans forward and takes the head of Zuko's dick into his hot, pretty mouth and begins to suck with gentle reverence.

Zuko groans aloud at the sheer, clear-headed consent of it.

"I know we've been over this," says Mung sternly, "but your compliance is imperative. You cannot be careless. We've discussed what you will say during the trial, and copies of the donation receipts will be provided to the..."

Sokka slicks Zuko's cock with saliva, tongue running along its length, giving special care to the head. Zuko is uncut, and Sokka rubs him into the open, thumbing at his base. When he touches Zuko's testicles, Zuko flinches. That contact disturbs him. Sokka backs off immediately and returns his attention to his shaft, licking and suckling, stray hair slipping forward and obscuring his face. Zuko reaches out with his free hand and strokes it out of the way, staring at Sokka's lowered lashes, his lovely pink tongue.

"Look at me," he whispers. "Sokka, please."

Sokka looks up at him. His eyes are impossibly blue. Zuko drops his phone entirely and bites into the side of his hand to keep quiet, and Sokka's gaze darkens, turns greedy. He sinks down over Zuko's cock, taking him into his throat, and bobs up and down while Zuko chokes for breath.

"Sokka—I can't—I'm—"

"Mm," Sokka moans softly, one of his hands tucked between his own legs, and resumes sucking until he draws Zuko's pleasure out of him one desperate gasp at a time. Sokka swallows him down clumsily but eagerly. Zuko feels like he comes forever. He hasn't been touched in months, hasn't touched himself in nearly a year, and it's never been like this, not even when he and Sokka were teenagers and they'd spend ages in Zuko's car experimenting and kissing and grinding until their thighs ached. This is different. This is older and speaks to a shared erotic history that has Zuko trembling all over. If he were standing, he would've collapsed.

Zuko fades down slowly, lips parted, chest heaving. Sokka stands up, looping one arm under Zuko's knees and settling him onto his back on the bedspread. A stray drop of come has slipped from his mouth, and he thumbs it back inside, smiling demurely. Damned if that doesn't make Zuko shiver with arousal all over again. He spreads his arms open, supplicating. Sokka redresses him, sinks into his embrace, and kisses him. Zuko tastes himself.

Mung is _still_ talking.

Zuko scoops his phone into his hand. "Got it, fine," he says, too breathless not to be suspicious, and hangs up on one of his father's intermediaries for the first time in his life. And that's when it hits him.

He didn't think of his father once.

The realization is powerful and confusing and horrifying all at once. His shaking stops being from his climax and starts feeling scared and small, as if he were a child again, and only abates when Sokka pulls him closer and begins to hum. Nothing like his mother's lullabies, nothing like the easy classical his father prefers in the aftermath. Just Sokka. Sokka and his sweet body and his own erection, pressed securely to Zuko's thigh.

"Oh, Sokka," Zuko whispers, voice hoarse. "I didn't…" but when he reaches for Sokka, Sokka deflects him.

"It's okay," Sokka says. "That was for you."

"I want to please you."

Sokka looks at him incredulously. "How could you possibly please me more than letting me do that to you?" he asks.

" _For_ me," says Zuko. " _With_ me."

That makes Sokka smile, shy. "With you."

Mung is calling again, but Zuko doesn't pick up. He feels in control of his own body. He can give it or not. Curled in the refuge of Sokka's arms, Zuko falls asleep, and doesn't dream of the terror of tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/).


	15. Testimony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still can't shake the feeling that I've really messed something up logistically here. If you find any continuity errors, please do let me know so I can silently fix them and pretend that they were never there (I've already tweaked a few minor details in the previous chapter). In the meantime: thank you all for getting this far into the story, and for bearing with me as I struggle through a scene that is chock full of enormous creative liberties and quite far out of my usual writing range. You've been so graceful and understanding in your reception of this fic. I can't thank you all enough for your comments and theories, and am delighted to prove some of you right.
> 
> I thought there'd be like five chapters after this one, but it's shaping up to be more like nine because I just can't shut up??? So I hope that is something to look forward to. Thank you!

Uncle Iroh drives Azula, Zuko, and Sokka to the courtroom at nine the following morning.

At nine-seventeen, Zuko vomits, his suit jacket discarded on the bathroom floor beside him.

"You're okay, baby," Sokka whispers, stroking his back. "You're okay."

Zuko tries to reply, but his stomach is heaving. He sags against the toilet, sweaty forehead propped on his arm, eyes watering steadily. He's done more crying this month than he has in the last fifteen years of his life, but he's getting it out of his system now. He doesn't know what he's going to say, but he's going to say it with dry eyes.

 _I love my father._ If the sentiment were to spill out of him right now, it wouldn't be a lie. He still means it. Still loves him. He can't unlearn that anymore than he can unlearn the way his father likes him after work, in his mirrored bathroom or on top of his silk sheets, designer necktie sometimes fastened around Zuko's wrists. He knows the hard muscle of his father's abdomen and the ridges of his hipbones and the thickness of his member. Knows him and is devoted to him in ways that make the child inside of Zuko desperate to please. _I am your son. Love me. I will be perfect for you._

But Sokka is here now with his different, chaste, bright love. A love that feels like warm, baptismal water, fresh and innocent even on the bathroom floor as Zuko retches into the toilet. _I love you, Sokka._ That's true, too. _I love you. Belonging to you makes me feel clean._

Sokka swipes at his soaked face with paper towels. Zuko manages to lift his head and look at him just as he glances up, relief flooding his expression. "Cavalry's here," he says, and steps aside so Aang can take his place.

"Hey," says Aang easily, swiping Zuko's bangs back and blowing gently on his forehead. "Wow, you look awful!"

Zuko hiccups on a small laugh. His stomach surges again. "L-love—"

"I love you too," says Aang.

He throws up again. Just bile now, and the water Sokka has been giving him small sips of. He sits there for a long moment, panting for breath, Aang's hand in his hair, faint notes of Sokka's soothing, cinnamony cologne speckling the air. Then Zuko stands up and flushes the toilet, his knees aching from kneeling on the tile.

Aang wasn't kidding: he looks like death. He rinses his mouth thoroughly and chews a few small mints, splashes water on his face, tries to save his hair, which he'd originally slicked back for the occasion. Sokka holds out his suit jacket for him to thread his arms into, and Aang dusts him off. Zuko leans against the sink heavily. His eyes are ringed in red, and his cheeks are swollen. But when he looks past his own reflection, he sees Sokka smiling and rubbing his back; sees Aang neatly dressed in his good trousers and shoes so he can cheer Zuko on from the gallery. Zuko almost smiles. _I love them. I am loved by them._ And just outside—

"Nephew," says Uncle Iroh, when Zuko pushes through the doors back into the lobby, "you've loosened your tie. Would you like an Eldredge knot for good luck?"

"Just the Windsor, I should think," says Azula. "Don't want to look too jaunty."

 _My family._ Zuko stands there as Uncle and Azula fuss over him, their dichotomy striking in that moment: Uncle has been told nothing, and Azula has been told everything, if not in words. Uncle's smile is kind but uninformed, and there are razors behind Azula's eyes. She catches his gaze as she refolds his tie, grimly supportive. Only she can guess at the horrors Zuko could attest to. _Be as brave as you can today_ , says her expression. _I'll love you no matter what._

It's love, again and again. He's surrounded by it. He lets out a slow breath and manages to nod at Mai, stunning in a black pinstripe business suit, and Ty Lee, wearing a pink pencil skirt and a fond smile. Katara's there too, clad in a simple blue dress and neat faux-leather ankle boots. Like Sokka, she will be waiting just outside, sitting on one of the benches outside Courtroom F that borders a full-length window looking out into the building's gardens. Nothing as extraordinary as the butterfly pavilion, but achingly beautiful in the way of everything free. Zuko thinks about how he would like to disappear into the sky right now. But Sokka and Aang's hands are keeping him grounded.

"You can do this," Aang says. "You can do anything. You're strong and smart and _good_ , and you'll do what you can up there, and we will support you in it one-hundred percent."

"Well said," says Uncle. "The only thing that matters is that you remain true to yourself."

"Whatever the hell that means," says Zuko.

Uncle Iroh cups the nape of Zuko's neck briefly, softly. The touch is so gentle Zuko wants to cry from it. "It means that you do what harms you least," says Uncle. "What serves your heart best. What you can most easily live with."

"You're not telling me to be honest," Zuko observes.

Uncle makes a vacillating gesture with his hand, then touches a finger to his lips. "I'm telling you," he says in a whisper, "that there are many ways to be honest with oneself."

"Oh, what a load of bullshit, Uncle," says Azula loudly.

"My Azula, you too are multifaceted. You will understand someday."

"Don't count on it. I'm no traitor to myself or my desires," she says, but there's no real fire in it—her relationship with Uncle Iroh has been improving steadily since she was a young, angry teenager, and when he chuckles and puts a hand on her shoulder, she doesn't shrug it off. "Just make sure you walk away from this with your head held high," Azula tells Zuko. "Don't give him the satisfaction."

And that's perhaps the most stabilizing of positions afforded to him. Zuko nods, stomach in knots. "I won't," he promises.

"Then let's go," she says.

Zuko takes a deep breath. He turns and kisses Sokka hard on the mouth, surprising a little gasp from him—he warned Sokka last night that he might seem distant in an attempt to maintain professionalism in public—and Sokka responds by snagging him back when he moves away and kissing him again, softer and sustained. His friends form a perfect circle of privacy around them. Zuko feels safe leaning into Sokka, letting their foreheads touch briefly.

"Love you," he says.

"I love you too, Zuko."

He pauses. Sokka is trembling under his unseasonably warm jacket, minutely but unmistakably. Zuko can feel it now, fingers splayed against his ribcage. "Are you okay?" he says, confused.

"Ha, it's just—you know. Nerves on your behalf," says Sokka.

Zuko examines him quizzically. He's no Toph, but Sokka's lying. "Sokka—"

"You need to go now. I'll be right out here, okay? Think about me in my underwear if you get nervous."

"I don't think that would have the intended effect," says Zuko, trying to flirt, but neither of them are really into it, and he kisses Sokka one last time with a fresh, minty mouth. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Here I go."

"Here you go," Sokka echoes, and his smile is sweet and familiar and wrong.

*

They bring Zuko's father in through a side door at nine-fifty. He is uncuffed. He is impeccably dressed in a fitted suit, his hair in a straight, shiny ponytail, facial hair beautifully maintained. He smiles immediately at Zuko, and it's like all of the air in the room is sucked away.

Zuko can't breathe. He starts shaking all over.

The smell of his father's cologne arouses him.

Zuko squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head, mouth watering again with the urge to vomit. He'd cry if he had any tears left in him; he's that fucking ashamed of himself. _Sokka_ , he thinks, furious and beseeching, and uses it as a mantra until his father's presence begins to shrink away: Sokka laughing with a spoon in his mouth at lunch yesterday. Sokka reading about butterflies. Sokka on the marching field with his trumpet to his lips. Zuko prays Sokka's name over and over between his trembling hands and sits hunched over, head bowed, until the bailiff calls for them to rise.

Judge Kyoshi enters the room in her long black robes, moving slowly, knowing that the world will wait for her. Even before she steps up to the bench, she towers over everyone, beautiful and formidable and calculating. The sight of her makes Zuko's throat dry with fright and respect. There is a moment before she sits down where Zuko swears she looks at him. A moment of challenge, and acknowledgement. But then she seats herself and picks up her gavel, and Zuko blinks with disorientation, unsure if he'd imagined it.

"The U.S. District Court for Capital County is now in session, the Honorable Judge Kyoshi presiding," says the bailiff. "Please be seated."

Zuko sits. Azula's hand finds his, and though her expression does not change as the jurors are sworn in, she squeezes so hard that Zuko's fingers ache.

"Jurors, you may be seated," says Judge Kyoshi in her deep, velvety voice. "Good morning, ladies, gentlemen, guests. Calling the case of Ozai Sozin, charged with murder in the first degree of Zhang Yong Zhao. Is the prosecution ready?"

June Nyla stands. She's a beautiful woman with black hair and lipstick, standing at the far counsel table. Her nails are filed to slender points. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Be seated. Is the defense ready?"

Mung rises to his feet. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Be seated. Let's begin with your opening statements."

June Nyla is dark, dangerous grace. Her heels click as she paces. "Your Honor, members of the jury, my name is June Nyla, and I am representing the state in Zhang Yong Zhao's homicide. The defendant has been charged with first degree murder, and the evidence in this case—including a timeline, murder weapon, and witness testimony—will prove that Ozai Sozin, armed with the means to kill Zhao, is guilty as charged."

 _Witness testimony._ The prosecution's ace. Zuko glances around the sea of faces on her side of the gallery for the first time—and feels all sensation melt out of his limbs.

Sitting in the first bench, staring directly at him, is his mother.

Zuko half-stands to go to her instinctively. Like a frightened toddler, he wants to run to her, wants to hide against her. Azula narrowly keeps him in his seat by yanking his elbow back down, but then she notices too, and her hand goes slack.

They haven't seen her in more than a decade. 

The night she left, she woke Zuko with a kiss to the cheek and a whispered lullaby. He thought he was dreaming. He was too old for cradle songs. Everything about the moment was nightmarish, from the way her suitcases in the doorway bisected the light from the hall, to the ring of purple around her eye, the trickle of blood slipping from her nose. She swiped it away as she hummed to him, stroking his hair. Zuko, then barely eleven, fell back into an uneasy sleep. When he woke up the next morning, there was no place setting for her at the breakfast table, and no one spoke about it.

Even though there are streaks of gray in her dark hair now, she is unmistakable in her elegance, her intelligence and tragedy. She's wearing a deep maroon pants suit, tailored, but not the thousand-dollar ensemble Zuko's father's budget would've afforded her. The man beside her is clearly her husband. They hold hands, a modest silver ring on her finger. She doesn't insult Zuko and Azula with something as careless as a smile, but she nods almost imperceptibly.

Zuko stares back at her, _yearning_.

How much does she know of his life now? If they were to talk in this instant, what could Zuko even say? Would he begin with his anger at her absence, his mourning for her, his fear and love for his father? His devotion to Sokka? What summary could Zuko possibly provide that could address the man he has become without her?

But, Zuko realizes, meeting her identical gold eyes, she already knows. Partly intuition, he's sure, and the rest—maybe she had him followed. Protected. The thought should scare Zuko, but it is instead a comfort, as one would take in a guardian angel. Someone watching as he and Sokka rekindled their relationship; a witness to the beauty that became their new romance, the most immaculate part of Zuko's filthy life. He is proud for her to know of Sokka. He imagines her as a spectator. A supporter.

Maybe through text messages.

Azula is shaking with rage or adrenaline or both. The circumstances of their mother's departure from Azula's life was different—Azula didn't wake up for the kiss she undoubtedly lay on her sleeping brow. She felt even more abandoned than Zuko did. He holds her hand now, and suddenly he's the steady one. It feels good being there for her, but he hates that she's hurting.

Their mother lets them look away first. A gift to them; one of respect and control.

Zuko faces ahead again, feeling both loved and imperiled. 

Mung is delivering his statement. He is a moneyed man, cruel-eyed but charismatic, and he speaks with his hands folded neatly behind his back, like a general. "Your Honor, Counsel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: in representation of a philanthropic and estimable magnate, we will establish Ozai Sozin's innocence. In the course of this trial, you will hear no evidence of our client's guilt, but instead his alibi, his charitable contributions, and character testimony from his honored son."

Zuko closes his eyes against the stares people pin him with. His mouth is trembling. He presses his lips together.

"Is the prosecution ready to present its case?" asks Kyoshi.

"Yes, Your Honor," says June.

"Then you may call your first witness."

June nods. Her eyes are calm and ready. "Ursa-Noriko Ikem, please take the stand."

*

She swears in. She spells her first name, then her last, neither of them familiar. She sits there in that tall chair with her back very straight and tells her that she heard the gunshots that killed Zhao.

"I called Ozai to discuss child support that evening," she says. "Imagine a billionaire demanding twelve-hundred dollars a month from a nurse."

"Objection," says Mung, raising a finger. "Relevance?"

"Sustained," says Kyoshi. "On topic, please, Mrs. Ikem."

"When he picked up, I could tell he was otherwise occupied," says Zuko's mother. "He sounded angry. Distracted. He set the phone aside without putting me on hold. I couldn't make out anything beyond Ozai saying Zhao's name, but their voices grew heated, and then there were two gunshots. Ozai picked up the phone again then. Tried to gauge what I'd heard without giving anything away. I initially agreed to keep quiet, and only came forward with this information recently."

"What changed your mind?" asks June.

Her chin rises a few degrees. She stares down at Ozai, proud and cold. "I decided that I was done being terrified of this man," she says.

June asks her about their past as a married couple. Traumas pour forth: isolation, beatings, burns, financial restrictions. She had to ask for the twelve dollars she needed to purchase concealer to cover the bruises Zuko's father gave her. With dignity and humility, she declares that she was cowardly to leave her children without fighting for them. Zuko feels that deep in his bones, bitter and damn near unsympathetic—yet he does not fault her for escaping when she had the chance. Leaving takes courage too, he understands suddenly.

_I never left him. Maybe I never will._

As part of Mung's cross-examination, he demands to know how she incontrovertibly recognized the sounds as gunshots. She explains that as soon as she left Zuko's father, in fear of retaliation, the first thing she did was learn to fire a gun. She says she carried one for years, peeking around every corner, triple-locking her doors. Only in her second husband's arms did she feel true safety again, and that's perhaps something else Zuko can relate to: Sokka gave him a reference for a healthy relationship, even if that doesn't amount to a confession today.

"Interesting claim, that a man would pick up his phone while engaged in a conversation serious enough to incite murder," says Mung dryly, paging through her testimony.

She says nothing, doesn't speak out of turn, but she looks at Zuko, and he sees everything in her hard eyes: his father needed her phone record as an alibi, and he assumed that she would just keep her pretty mouth shut.

There is suddenly no doubt in Zuko's mind that his father killed Zhao. But why? Why would such a meticulous man be so careless and impulsive? What could Zhao possibly have had over him?

Zuko feels sicker and sicker as the trial progresses. Mung is ruthless in his quick, neat interrogations of June's witnesses—the young man who found Zhao's body on a riverbed near his property; Zhao's wife, who insists that her husband was brutally overworked at EEI; and the pathologist who performed the autopsy. Two gunshots to the chest, corroborating his mother's testimony. The physical evidence includes the murder weapon, registered to Zuko's father and recovered a county away in a lake, and although it gave the police grounds to arrest him and deny bail, the .380 was fingerprint-free. His father claims it must have been stolen from his home. And he still doesn't have a motive.

Regardless, in her second closing argument, June paints Ozai Sozin as an unapologetic and calculating killer who tried to terrorize his wife into becoming his pretext. She offers the gun, body, and autopsy in evidence, and dismisses the notion of manslaughter.

"This crime was not committed in the heat of passion," June says. "This was a calculated execution and a calculated cleanup, and my witnesses prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Sozin was responsible for the murder of Zhang Yong Zhao. Zhao was not prepared to lose his life to his ruthless employer, who has shown no remorse over his death. His three children and wife of thirty-four years will continue to grieve for their beloved father and husband as they await your equitable and unanimous guilty verdict. Thank you for your time and attention."

Zuko has been staring at his father's back for hours, torn between helpless love and confused anger, but it is only now that he turns around and meets Zuko's eyes. The moment between them seems to boil. His father smiles, slow and confident and fond. He gives his chin a questioning tilt upward.

And, despite everything, Zuko finds himself reflexively nodding back.

*

During the recess, Zuko and his friends push two tables together in the courthouse cafeteria and sit together. Uncle buys him a bowl of oatmeal, but Zuko can't even manage a bite. He stirs it and watches Aang peel a bruised banana, staring at it bleakly before he registers Zuko's gaze upon him. He quickly shifts into a smile. He rarely has to fake enthusiasm, but this grin is empty. He, like everyone else here, has read the room and found something grim in it.

"It's looking good," he says. "For a 'not guilty' sentence, I mean. "

"Yeah," says Zuko. So why does he feel so ill? Doesn't he want his father to walk?

Ty Lee asks him as much: "Were you hoping for something different?"

Yes. No. "I can't imagine life without him in it." And that's the truth, at least. These months have been the strangest of Zuko's life: beautiful and liberating and empowering, yes, but frightening by the same token. He learned to count on the days his father would call upon him with gifts and attention. They made him feel wanted. He has Sokka now to pave over that insecurity, but before he returned, Zuko was actively angry. He felt lost, unsteady. Alone.

He knows that to be false now, surrounded by family and friends. Everyone is rooting for him, obvious from the way Azula slides him a small carton of milk to Sokka's hand on his waist; Katara's kind smile and Mai's bracing nod when their eyes meet. They're not here for his father: they're here for him. Zuko forces a smile. He is so fortunate to have them.

"Thank you all for being here," he says.

"You don't need to thank us," says Mai. She's sitting between Ty Lee and her uncle, the warden at the Boiling Rock, whose gaze has been strange and wary since he sat down. Zuko avoids eye contact with him. "How do you feel?"

"Everything is very surreal," Zuko says—an incredible understatement.

"Mother looks well," says Azula, very quietly.

Zuko laughs aloud. The sound startles him; it's confused and humorless. "Ursa-Noriko Ikem. Uncle, did you know about her involvement in this case?"

"I wish I had," says Uncle. "I would have given you some warning. Won't you try a little food, please?"

"I don't think I can," says Zuko, pushing his bowl away. "I don't want to be sick again."

"Yeah, that was pretty gross," Sokka says. "It was the first time since I met you six years ago that I didn't want to throw you onto a couch and smooch you senseless."

"Sokka!" Zuko hisses, feeling his face redden, but it has the intended effect of making him smile. Under the table, Sokka bumps their knees together. Zuko's sitting between him and Aang, across from Uncle and Azula, who look stunningly alike for just a moment, mouths set in identical tired lines. Then Uncle recovers his grin and takes Zuko's hand into his own.

"It is almost time," he says. "I know you are going to do magnificently."

Zuko licks his lips and stares at their clasped hands. _I would have given you some warning_ , Uncle said, and Zuko thinks that perhaps he should return the favor. He'd be blindsiding him terribly if he didn't. "Uncle," says Zuko, voice low, "what if I—don't do well?"

"You will," says Uncle, with conviction.

"I mean—on purpose?"

Uncle doesn't recoil or anything, but Zuko can tell that he is startled, though he buries it beneath a long, contemplative pause. He studies Zuko carefully. "I suppose, then," he says slowly, "that I would tell you that your relationship with your father is less important than your relationship with yourself. And I would hope that that's helpful somehow, because I wonder sometimes if I am out of my depth advising you on matters of your strong and unknowable heart."

Zuko closes his eyes when they begin to water, rapidly blinking back the tears. He manages not to cry by looking back at Azula, the only person here who has an idea of what he has been through with their father. There is no pity in her gaze. Only resolve and encouragement.

"Give him the testimony he deserves," she says, and leaves it at that.

"I'll try," Zuko says quietly.

The bailiff enters the cafeteria. "The People of the State versus Ozai Sozin resumes in Courtroom F in ten minutes," she says. "Please make sure you are seated before the doors close."

Ten minutes. Zuko stands, reaching for his bowl of uneaten oatmeal, but Aang pulls it out of his way. "We'll take care of this," Aang says. "Go do what you need to do."

"Thank you," says Zuko, grateful. Then, shyly: "Sokka—?"

"I'll come with," Sokka says, taking his cue.

Holding hands, they head upstairs to the courtroom, but pass it by on their way to a more private corridor that leads to a small, closed library. Once alone, Zuko pulls Sokka close and presses his lips to the corner of his mouth. They stand there for a long moment, breaths coming in slow, deep pulses. Sokka nuzzles their cheeks together. He holds Zuko against him, eyes closed, arms around his waist.

"God, I love you so fucking much," Sokka says huskily. 

"I love you too." Zuko tilts his head down. "Sokka, I—might be different the next time you see me."

"Hey. Nothing you can say up there will change you beyond my recognition," says Sokka, lifting his chin so that he is forced to meet his gaze. "I will _always_ love you, Zuko. I'm not running away this time, or ever again."

Zuko nods. He allows himself another small moment with Sokka, lingering there temple-to-temple. Then he kisses Sokka's cheekbone and leans back. A little further down the hallway, the doors to Courtroom F are closing, and Katara is resuming her post on the bench outside. The blue of her dress matches her and Sokka's eyes. Zuko swallows, and smiles the bravest smile of his life.

"It's time," he says.

*

When Zuko meets his father's eyes again as he returns to his seat, he looks away fast. He thinks of Sokka and only Sokka, his grin, his promises. He remains standing until Judge Kyoshi has taken the podium again, then sits down between Azula and Aang. They reach for his hands simultaneously and independently. Zuko holds them both as Mung delivers his opening statement.

His heart fights every word of it.

Ozai Sozin, billionaire, engineering genius. _Avaricious._ A kindhearted, generous businessman, charismatic and philanthropic. _Speaks with his fists._ Would never knowingly harm another human being. _Harmed me. I was thirteen. I didn't understand it; I still don't understand it._ Ozai Sozin did not murder Zhang Yong Zhao.

_You killed him. I don't know why, but you went to his house and you picked up my mother's phone call and you shot him twice in the chest. He must've had something terrible on you._

_He must've known who you really are._

"For character testimony, I call upon Zuko Sozin," says Mung.

The bailiff stands to escort him.

Zuko climbs to his feet and passes Aang, Mai, and Ty Lee on his way to the stand. The walk seems to take forever, and his shoes click loudly on the tile. Right foot, left foot, right foot. Zuko concentrates on making it to the boxed-in podium with its simple chair and microphone without tripping or pausing or collapsing. His heart is beating so loudly he feels it's a wonder that no one can hear it in the silence. Blood rushes to his ears as he climbs up the steps and waits.

"Please raise your right hand," says the clerk, and Zuko does. "Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you shall give before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Zuko's stomach tightens. "I do," he says.

"You may be seated."

He sits down. He hasn't begun shaking yet. That's for later. Right now he is running on pure adrenaline, sitting very still as Mung stands up and begins paging through a case file. His cruel, shrewd eyes burn when they meet Zuko's. He smiles, and it's probably meant to look kind, but it rings false. Zuko does not smile back.

"Your name, for the record?" asks Mung.

"Zuko Sozin," says Zuko, and spells it.

"'Sozin,' as in 'Sozin's Private Academy for Boys.'"

"Yes. My great-grandfather founded the school."

"What do you do for a living, Zuko?"

"I used to work for—"

"Speak into the microphone, please."

Zuko leans forward. When the mic picks up his voice, it chills him, the sound of it ringing in the quiet room. "I used to work for my father with his company, Electrical Engineers Incorporated—EEI—but I turned in my notice a few months ago to help my Uncle Iroh at his tea shop."

"Why the sudden change of career?"

Because the place is different for him now. Has become resonant with surreal memories. Because his father took him roughly over his desk after a difficult day, hips working hard against Zuko's, and EEI lost its sacred air of safety and professionalism. He returned once to troubleshoot some of the power systems, and his father had propositioned him then, too. Two instances didn't necessarily indicate a pattern, but Zuko wasn't going to stick around to let it become one. He couldn't compromise the innocence of his work memories. He couldn't lose another part of his own body to sex.

"My sister Azula was taking on more responsibilities after a promotion, and I knew she and my father had all their bases covered," Zuko says instead. "I thought Uncle might need some extra hands."

"Your family is very close."

Not quite how he'd put it, but—"Yes."

"Your family does not include your absent mother, correct?"

"That's—" Zuko begins, heated, but June says, "Objection. Leading question."

"Withdrawn," says Mung. "You were called here today as a character witness for your father. I'd appreciate some insight into what kind of person he is, with regards to this case. What types of behaviors does he exhibit in a work environment?"

Zuko thinks about that. "He's a strong leader," he says at last. "He's capable, diligent. Detail-oriented. Exact."

What the fuck is he saying.

"He makes annual contributions to cancer research funds, isn't that correct?" says Mung. "Your Honor, I'd like these receipts admitted into evidence."

"They will be admitted as People's exhibit number four," Kyoshi says.

As Mung passes copies of the paperwork to the jurors, Zuko says, numbly, "That's right. He supports several different foundations. Many millions of dollars." Yet he didn't contribute a cent to Zuko's marching band. They'd used old equipment; rental instruments and repurposed props for the color guard. When Zuko was attending Sozin's and playing the viola, his father funded a whole new auditorium. "He donated money to the music programs of the academies my sister and I attended, too."

"A lover of the arts."

Classical. After sex. Soothing cello as Zuko sits on the side of the bed and shivers while his father smokes Sobranie Black Russians, the cigarettes very dark in his red mouth.

"Yes," says Zuko.

"Is it true that he fully funded your college education?"

Perfect grades in a nationally-ranked electrical engineering program. "Yes."

"Does he pay your apartment's monthly rent?"

"Yes."

"But his contributions to your quality of life aren't exclusively financial, of course," says Mung. "Mr. Sozin, would you please relate to us an instance wherein your father demonstrated non-material commitment to you?"

Zuko swallows hard. Tries to think past the expensive watches and wines and cufflinks and flowers, the cars, the lodging, the education.

"When I was injured at thirteen," he says at last, gesturing to the left side of his face, "he didn't leave my bedside once. He held my hand and helped me eat, and when I was released from the hospital, he administered my medications. Told me I was still—beautiful." And that makes his stomach flip inside of him, how close it is to a deeper truth, but when he gazes out into the gallery, Aang and Uncle Iroh's expressions are encouraging and unsuspicious.

Azula, though. Her face grows dark, furious and sick. She looks away when he meets her eyes. She must think him a great coward. She might be right.

"Do you honestly believe your father is capable of murder?" asks Mung, smug and calm.

"Objection," says June again. "Question calls for speculation."

"I'll rephrase," Mung says. "Were you with your father the evening Zhao was killed?"

"Yes, I was," Zuko says. "About an hour prior."

"What were you doing?"

_His father finishes inside Zuko with a grunt. Zuko stands there gripping the desk, legs trembling from the strain of holding himself upright, and waits until the last hot surge begins slipping down his thighs before letting himself collapse to the carpet. As he pants for breath, his father passes him a handkerchief. Zuko wipes his face first, then between his legs. When he looks up, his father catches him in a deep, slow kiss, pinching one of his nipples. Fright and arousal spike through Zuko. Does his father want another round? But instead of pushing him back onto the desk, his father just contemplates him as he sits there on the ground._

_"You were lovely," says his father. The rare compliment sings through Zuko, and he closes his eyes as his father strokes his face between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing over Zuko's lips._

_But it doesn't take long before the grip becomes painful, bruising. Zuko knows not to make a sound. His father draws him to his feet and bullies him back to the desk, pushing two fingers into his still-slick entrance, curling them there dangerously as one would hook a fish._

_"Tell me you love me."_

_"I love you, Father," Zuko gasps. His body feels aflame._

_"Tell me there will never be another."_

_"Only you. Only you."_

_"Make me believe it," says his father, and positions himself back inside of him, hand pinning Zuko facedown—_

"We were having sex," says Zuko simply.

His voice echoes in the courtroom. He delivers this into pin-drop silence.

A silence that lingers.

For the longest time, Azula is the only one who seems to move: one of her hands rises slowly to her mouth, but Uncle Iroh remains perfectly still; Aang doesn't even breathe; and nothing in the world could get Zuko to look at his father now. Couldn't do it if his very life depended on it.

But Mai's uncle, sitting beside her as she stares at him with uncomprehending eyes, nods to him just once, curtly.

And his own mother begins to weep.

Zuko sits with his cold hands clenched in his lap so tightly that they shake, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and waits for the ice in the room to thaw into horror.

"You—your father," says Mung at long last, fumbling.

"After we finished looking at the transmission maps," Zuko clarifies.

"Surely there—I must misunderstand you."

"We were having sex," says Zuko. "He was putting himself in me."

"My client—he—"

Movement breaks in the gallery.

Aang is hurling himself toward Ozai, scrabbling over the benches before him with a long, harrowing cry that only cracks briefly when one of the security guards, moving quickly, charges him to the floor. Aang hits the ground fighting and doesn't stop, even when a second guard arrives to overpower him and yank his hands behind him to cuff. Aang writhes, gasping with an aching, full-voiced vigor: "I'll kill you, Ozai!" he sobs, thrashing. _"I'll kill you!"_

Kyoshi tries to speak over him, but the room is erupting with gasps and murmurs and chatter. Mai stands up, shaking her head, one hand at her throat. Ty Lee is stock-still. Zuko doesn't follow Azula's gaze, but he knows she is staring directly at their father, her gaze frigid and calm and unwavering—

There are tears streaming down Uncle Iroh's cheeks.

Zuko looks away. His own eyes start stinging. He stares as the first hot droplet drips free and spatters on the pant leg of the thousand-dollar trousers his father instructed him to wear today. 

Aang's voice rises again above the clamor; a shrill, wordless wail that rings off the walls.

"Hold him in contempt," Kyoshi demands.

The guards manhandle Aang out of the courtroom. When the doors part, Zuko hears Katara, crystal clear ("What's happening? _Aang?")_ before they slide shut again.

Zuko can't seem to move. Tears slip down his face, beading on his chin, falling into his lap. He doesn't know how he's supposed to look at anyone ever again. Shame sears him all the way down to his feet, which he can't feel but for his toes, clenched into cramping curls as he fights the urge to stand and run, _run_ ; find Sokka's arms and throw himself into them and hide until the world is done looking at him. He wants to be a child directing a marching band again. He wants to be eighteen and engaged. He wants to go someplace where nobody knows who he is, where he can shed his name and the filth of his father's hands like cocoon silk, struggling for soft, emergent wings.

"Order," Kyoshi declares, voice loud and chilly. "Order in my courtroom." She raps her gavel over and over and doesn't stop until the room grows quiet again, disturbed and alive and uneasy. "Ozai Sozin," she says suddenly, " _sit down_."

And Zuko makes the mistake of looking up, just once.

His father's eyes are filled with murder.

A fear Zuko has never known catches fire inside his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut. _Sokka,_ he thinks. _Sokka._

"Counsellors, approach," Kyoshi says sharply.

Mung and June confer at the bench for a long moment. Zuko can't hear what they're saying, but their voices are thin and agitated. Eventually they return to their desks, and Mung says, "Motion to strike witness testimony as scandalous and—"

"Your own witness?" Kyoshi challenges. "Without placing an objection? Denied. Have you any further questions?"

"No, Your Honor," Mung mumbles.

"Miss Nyla, would you like to cross-examine this witness?" asks Kyoshi.

"I don't think that's necessary, Your Honor," June drawls.

"Then Zuko Sozin is excused," Kyoshi says.

Voice feeble, Mung calls his next witness as Zuko stumbles from the stand. He doesn't know if he is intended to take his seat again, but he leaves the courtroom entirely, and hears shuffling behind him as his Uncle Iroh, Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee move to follow him.

But for a moment, with Katara chasing Aang down the corridor, it's only Sokka. Sokka standing backlit against the windows, confused and frantic and vacillating between waiting and following Katara, his face stricken. When he sees Zuko, he spreads his arms wide and makes a sharp, scared sound. Zuko flings his arms around Sokka's neck and drags him close. Sokka clings back to him, helps ease him to the floor when his legs give way. "Zuko, babe," he murmurs, stroking Zuko's hair. "Shh. Shh, I've got you. What the fuck happened?"

And Zuko can't even begin to answer him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In absolute SHOCK over how the last chapter was received. Thank you all so, SO much for the overwhelming support and kindness and receptivity!! Review replies are going to be late and insufficient this time around, because there are no words for how grateful I am, and how incredible you are. Just--thank you so much. You rocked my fucking year.
> 
> Things are coming to a head in this fic, and it's been a wonderful journey. I have substantially changed the original plotline, and hope that I've made the correct choices. More answers in the following chapter. Hope that they're worth waiting for.
> 
> Chapter warnings: references to physical and sexual abuse, some light drinking.

He's not sure what to call it. He doesn't remember blacking out. Doesn't fall. But an instant after he hurls himself at Sokka, he finds himself sitting on one of the benches further down the hall toward reception, where it's quieter. Sokka is holding his hand, and Uncle Iroh is stroking his forehead with a cotton kerchief. "Come back," Sokka is saying softly, looking directly into his eyes as he struggles to focus. "Come on, Zuko. Come back to us."

Zuko blinks until the world starts settling. Mai is sitting beside him, one hand on his shoulder, and Ty Lee is hurrying over with a paper cup of water. She passes it to Uncle, who helps him take a few careful sips. He feels very, very warm. "Did I faint?" he asks.

"You—started shaking really bad," says Sokka, laughing a little, voice wobbling. "Then you said you wanted to sit down. God, Zuko. What happened in there? Did Aang get arrested?"

 _Aang._ Zuko stands up too fast, almost falling before Uncle Iroh draws one arm around his shoulders and braces him at the waist. He and Sokka guide him back onto the bench. Zuko realizes that he's panting for breath and struggles to get himself under control, swallowing hard against sobs, repeatedly. Sweat is slipping down his temples. Uncle dabs it away. "Where would they have taken Aang?" Zuko demands. "Is he here? I have to see him!"

"They'll place him in police custody until Judge Kyoshi can assign a penalty," says Mai. "He'll be okay, Zuko. We'll think of something."

Her voice calms him more than Sokka's. They haven't spoken in nearly two weeks except to exchange perfunctory text messages; he feels that loss now like a hole in his heart. He leans into her, and Sokka passes him off gently. Mai cups the back of his head when he presses into her shoulder. She's trembling. That, more than anything, reminds him of the events that just transpired in the courtroom. The things he admitted to. The _shame_ he feels now, remembering that they know. His face burns. He feels filthy and endangered and repulsive. He doesn't know how he's ever supposed to look them in the eyes again.

Azula, silent until now, must sense this, because she says, "You are not different to us, Zuko. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. The only difference is that you are even braver now than you were before, and we have a better idea of what you've been through. We're going to get you help."

The stiff viscose shoulder of Mai's blazer smells like her shampoo, very subtle and antithetically floral. Zuko breathes it in.

"What happened?" Sokka asks again.

Zuko shakes his head quickly, and of course no one speaks for him, because they would never be so cruel or indiscreet. And then it hits him so hard, again, that it resonates through him, like a physical impact: Sokka has no idea what he's been through. He is still whole to him. He doesn't know that he knelt for his father on command or let him paint him with perfume and trace his fingers down Zuko's bare, rigid back. And Zuko can omit it now, because he'd rather be a liar than daddy's little whore.

With Sokka, he can pretend that he is still untouched.

"It's okay," Zuko manages, trying not to stutter. "I testified that my father was an unkind person. People got upset. Aang spoke out of turn."

Uncle is already shaking his head. He can't see Mai or Ty Lee's faces, but Azula's grows dark with disbelief. "Zuko—" she begins.

"Let me have this," Zuko interrupts.

"This isn't right," says Uncle.

"It isn't," Zuko agrees. "None of this is right."

Sokka's beginning to visibly lose his patience. He grips at the knees of his jeans, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Aang got dragged out in handcuffs because he interrupted someone?" he clarifies. "I know I'm out of my depth with all this legal stuff, but that doesn't seem like a—"

"Can you get me more water?" asks Zuko.

Sokka's mouth pulls into a frustrated line, but he takes Zuko's cup and heads around the corner to the drinking fountain. His tread is heavy. Everyone watches him until he is out of earshot. Then Azula turns to Zuko, waits until he meets her eyes, and shrugs off her suit jacket.

"What are you—" Zuko begins, but then Azula is turning around and lifting the back of her blouse.

Blood rushes to his head. He suddenly can't hear anything. Azula's back is a map of white scars: small, evenly-spaced cuts along her spine; wide belt marks; trails of cigarette burns deliberately placed low so they could be hidden by a tank top. With a disconnected, sudden surreality, Zuko sees that her shoulderblades are still pristine. What baby skin should look like, clean and unmarred. An intactness that was denied to the rest of her. Zuko's eyes begin to sting with furious tears as Azula lowers her shirt again and calmly tucks it in, drawing her jacket back over her damaged body.

"Scratches for unacceptable reports, when I began interning," Azula says. "Burns for failing to meet the month's numbers. The belt when he felt like it. Perhaps when you were unavailable."

Mai covers her mouth, as if to contain sickness, and Ty Lee buries her face in her hands with a sob. Uncle Iroh closes his eyes. Tears slip from his eyes. For the first time since Zuko has known him, his voice fails him. He makes a sound of terrible pain.

"You will tell Sokka tomorrow," Azula says evenly.

"You wouldn't do that," says Zuko, reaching out to take her one of her hands. He's quivering all over. "You wouldn't threaten me like that."

"You're right," she says, clasping his hands back. "I wouldn't. I mean that you'll tell him tomorrow because if you don't have a deadline, the silence between the two of you will become too great. You can't live with this alone anymore, Zuko. And you don't have to."

Zuko chokes on a sob. He feels closer to Azula than he ever has in that moment, and it's okay that he doesn't have a way to articulate that, because she doesn't, either. Their joined hands look identical. Long-fingered with writer's calluses and round, neatly-clipped nails. And looking into her eyes, he knows that she's right: his traumas are unchecked now, trickling like open wounds, and there is a finite amount of time before that pain becomes irrevocable. He's bleeding out right at Sokka's feet. Shouldn't they both have a chance to stop it while they can?

Sokka reappears at the end of the corridor again, holding the water. Zuko can't help the stare he turns on him with, full of love and hunger and hope, and Sokka hastens to Zuko's side to press a firm, unabashed kiss to his lips. He makes Zuko drink the full cup. The miserable, unanswered concern in his expression breaks Zuko's heart.

"I need some time before I explain," Zuko says. "Just a few more days of things being normal. Please, is that okay?"

"Whatever you need," says Sokka, voice deeply strained. He looks at Uncle and Ty Lee, who are wiping at their eyes; Mai, sickly furious and stricken; Azula preternaturally composed, face calm and neutral and impossible to interpret. Sokka's helpless gaze grows overbright. "Fuck. Guys, _please—_ tell me there's something I can do for you. I'll do anything. I'll kill whoever. Just give me a hint."

"Come with us," Mai says, taking his hand. The contact is rare, conspicuous. "We need to find the holding cells."

"I think I saw a directory behind the reception desk," says Sokka.

"Let's go, then."

"Azula, Zuko," says Uncle. "A word, please."

Zuko pauses in the act of reaching for Sokka's elbow. Dread rises in his throat. Sokka squeezes his hand and pecks him on the temple, then leads Mai and Ty Lee down the opposite hallway, past the other courtrooms. Zuko studies his strong, steady gait, self-assured despite everything, and loves him even more because of it. He aspires to his fortitude and tidiness and beauty. He unlocks something inside Zuko that his father never touched.

When the three of them have disappeared through a door in the east wing of the building, Uncle Iroh bows deeply at the waist.

"I have failed you both." He speaks with dignity and grief. "I don't know how to begin to ask for your forgiveness."

"Uncle, no," Zuko blurts, horrified, before Azula overrides him: "You didn't know. _We_ barely knew. We couldn't even stand to admit it to ourselves."

"I should have protected you," says Uncle, head still lowered.

"It isn't your fault for failing to anticipate pure evil from someone you trusted," says Azula. "If you're guilty of that, then so are we."

Uncle straightens and pulls them both into his arms, face glimmering with tears. Zuko clings back immediately, but Azula takes a moment, standing stiffly in the embrace for an uncertain few seconds before slowly softening. The three of them hold each other for a long time. Then Uncle leans back and cups one hand to Zuko's cheek, the other to Azula's shoulder. "You make this old man so proud with your courage and growth," he says, voice coarse. "Azula, you have become charitable, and Zuko, you have learned autonomy. Both of you inspire me every day to become stronger."

The compliment warms the hollow pit of Zuko's stomach. It's shaky, but he manages a smile. He wipes at Uncle's damp cheek, and Uncle sniffles and dabs his own face with his handkerchief.

"Do you want to stay here for the next recess so you can speak to your mother?" he asks.

"No," says Zuko, panicked, but Azula says, "Yes" without hesitation. Her eyes, bare without even the usual swipe of liner, are indecipherable. She sits back down and crosses her legs with the obvious intent to wait. "Just go," says Azula, casually studying her nails. "I'll call a taxi when I'm done here."

Uncle Iroh and Zuko exchange a look. "I'm reluctant to leave you," says Uncle.

"I'm fine," Azula snaps, but her voice breaks.

That settles it. Uncle sits beside her and tucks one of her hands between his own. She doesn't pull away. "I shall stay here," Uncle says. "Zuko, can you and Sokka find your way home through Mai or Ty Lee?"

"Yes, we'll do that," says Zuko.

"I will be in touch," says Uncle.

"Okay." Zuko leans over to kiss him delicately on the cheek, then tries the same with Azula, who swats him away like a cat. It makes Zuko grin again, and this one feels less fragile, even though his eyes are still burning. He heads back down the hall toward the directory. He wants to talk to his mother again eventually, but right now, he feels like he'll shatter if he has to so much as smell her perfume.

He wonders if she still wears the same scent, iris and citrus. Pearl turtle stopper on a rose gold vial.

He hopes she has found a new fragrance by now.

When Zuko asks after Sokka, Mai, and Ty Lee, the receptionist directs him through a nearby vestibule and down a long, tiled corridor. Zuko has almost made it to the gray double doors when they reemerge, looking discouraged and weary, though they immediately try to school their expressions into neutrality when they spot him.

"Okay, they're not letting us see Aang because he's busy making phone calls or something, but Katara is with him, and the officer says the judge is deliberating," says Sokka, struggling to keep his voice chipper. "A fine, probably. Maybe some community service. Apparently he really flipped out in there?"

"Yeah," says Zuko, and doesn't elaborate.

Sokka sighs and scrubs at his face with his sleeve. "Well—what now?"

The four of them stand there, uncertain. Then Mai says, "I think I'd better go to the office. See if I can help Lo and Li with damage control before the press finds an even more defamatory angle."

"I'll go with you," says Ty Lee. "Unless you'd like me to stay with you, Zuko?"

"No, don't worry," Zuko says. "I'll just—"

But he can't think of anything to do with himself. He doesn't have a way to go back to being who he was before today, and though he knew that on some level when he was on the stand, it has never felt more real than it does in this instant. Zuko's breath grows short. He doesn't want to go back to the penthouse. Can't go to Mai's or Aang's. Can't visit his father in prison, even, which was actually a _comfort_ to him back then—the possibility of being able to return to his origin, to the bastard who made him, in every sense of the word—

"I know where we can go," says Sokka.

*

Suki answers the door with her toothbrush in her mouth.

"Well hey, valentines!" She's wearing glasses and green flannel pajama bottoms, hair still damp from the shower, and the only sign of her sleepiness is the fact that she doesn't heave herself at Sokka like usual. Then she sees Sokka's expression. "Oh my god," she says softly, then leans past him to look at Zuko. She places a hand on his elbow, the contact comforting and second-nature. "What happened?"

"What have you heard?" asks Zuko, stomach twisting.

"Not a thing, sorry," Suki says. "I just got off work. I was going to text Azula when I got into bed, but—"

"Don't, please," Sokka says. "It's just—we could really use a safe place right now, without all that noise. Reporters and footage and questions and stuff."

"All right, no questions," says Suki easily, leaning back and gesturing them inside. "Least from me. Can't make any promises for—"

"Is that the Fire Lord and Captain Boomerang?" Toph's voice rings out from further in the apartment. "Why are they here? Are they hungry? Do they want cereal?"

Sokka shrugs and turns to Zuko. "You want cereal?"

"Um. Okay," says Zuko.

Suki pitched her large kitchen as a selling point when she was tempting Azula to move in, and she wasn't exaggerating: the room is at least as large as the penthouse's, and twice as brightly-lit. Welcoming and clean and active. There are distinctly-shaped flour, salt, and sugar canisters on the faux-marble countertops, and Toph is standing near the kitchen island, reaching into one of the cabinets for some extra bowls. She plunks them down and begins pouring a mountain of blue pellets into each.

"The hell is that?" asks Sokka.

"Boo-berry Ghost Crunch," says Toph. "So good, it's scary!"

"Oops, I had you pegged as the gross muscle-building health-food type," says Sokka, settling at the counter.

"That's my alter ego, The Blind Bandit," says Toph, flexing and kissing one substantial bicep. "Cheat Day Toph likes corn syrup and marshmallows." She fetches the milk and three spoons from the fridge. "Chow down, kiddos."

"You're the kiddo," Sokka grumbles. He pours Zuko's milk, then Toph's, then his own, and cringes with his first bite. "Ah, man. It tastes—irradiated."

"Can't take the Artificial Blue No. 2, get outta the kitchen."

Zuko spoons some cereal into his mouth, then lets it dribble back out, wincing. Suki and Sokka laugh. Despite himself, Zuko smiles. He is still himself around these people. For a precious few hours, he can pretend that nothing has changed. And Toph must sense how shaken he is, because even she doesn't push, kicking him casually under the counter as she swings her feet.

"Were you going to bed?" Sokka asks Suki, when she reappears without her toothbrush. "We didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Screw that," says Suki. "My favorite person and his beau are here. What do you guys want to do? Blanket nest, movies, or booze?"

"Yes," says Zuko.

A futon, a heap of blankets, and many margaritas later, Zuko is starting to feel something close to human again. He curls into Sokka as the tequila mellows his limbs, Sokka giving him little sips of his Sunrise, just enough to numb him without letting him hurt himself. He keeps compulsively checking his phone, but there's no news from Aang or Katara. They watch one movie, then another. It grows late. Past the time that court would've adjourned for the day. Zuko feels something getting ready to happen, as if he's standing under a transmission tower, the air thrumming with static. He rests against Sokka, lips at his collarbone.

Suki and Toph are lovely. When Zuko begins drifting, Suki makes coffee, and Toph flicks popcorn at them, making hilarious and wildly inaccurate inferences about what's happening on the screen. "Wow, they kind of look like Zuko," she says of every lead actor, extra, and animal. "Hey, another New Fashioned, Sukes?"

"You got it," says Suki, shaving off another sliver of orange peel with a flourish. "You boys ready for a refill?"

Zuko's phone goes off. Aang's ringtone, his favorite Ink Spots song; an old soul behind a wide smile that has never faltered before today. Zuko fumbles to pick up.

"Aang?"

"Sorry, it's me," says Katara. "My phone died, and Aang just got pulled away to fill out paperwork, but he wanted me to call you as soon as it was possible." She sounds ready to drop.

"Are you okay?" Zuko asks.

"Are _you_ okay?" she counters, and there's a hitch in her voice as she fights not to cry. "Aang wouldn't tell me anything about what happened in there. No one would. Not a word. I still have no idea what's going on, and I'm worried sick about both of you. Where the hell are you, anyway? Everyone's gone home!"

"We're with Suki and Toph," says Zuko. "Can you and Aang come over?"

"We'll be there as soon as he gets back."

"Back from—?"

"I've got to go. Aang's calling for me."

She hangs up abruptly. Zuko lowers his phone from his ear. _Aang hasn't told her anything_ , he thinks, and the relief that washes over him is so cold and refreshing that he gets a chill. Sokka feels him shudder and pulls him against his chest, folding a blanket around his shoulders. "Was that Katara? Are they coming over?" Sokka asks.

"Yeah," says Zuko.

"Just invite more people over, sure, that's fine," says Toph.

"She's just giving you shit," says Suki, before Zuko can apologize. "Wow, you guys really went through it today, huh? I mean, never mind. Forget I asked that. I'm gonna make Katara a bigass Bluewater Breeze, and Aang's totally going to get a tall oat milk with the best curly straw we own."

But when he and Katara arrive half an hour later, Aang looks broken, exhausted, and sorely tempted to down every drop of alcohol in the house. He goes straight to Zuko and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. Zuko holds onto him just as tight—tighter, even, when Aang starts shaking with sobs. Zuko shushes him softly, rocking him lightly back and forth, and Aang gets angry. "You shouldn't be comforting me!" he snaps, tears trailing down his cheeks as he shakes his head. "I should've been there for you. I failed you!"

Uncle Iroh said the same thing, but Zuko can't remember what Azula said to placate him. Something about how his father was evil. Zuko still isn't quite able to make sense of that philosophy, stumbling over his words, upsetting Aang more, and Suki takes his elbow and begins leading them both down the short hallway to a big window that overlooks the metal platform of the fire escape.

"This is where I go to think," she says gently. "Latch is broken, so just pull it back open when you're ready to come back inside. We're all here for you."

"Thank you, Suki," Zuko says.

He slips through the casement, then helps Aang over with him and pushes the glass pane back into place. Immediately all the sound inside the apartment drops off. The alleyway is quiet but for the ambient, suburban sounds of chirping crosswalk signs and faraway tires on pavement. It's raining just the slightest bit. Few small drops every five seconds. Zuko is reminded of the summer storm a few weeks back, the night he slept on Aang and Katara's couch and dreamt of Sokka and sunshine and sheet music.

How far away that morning seems now. As if from someone else's lifetime. God.

So much has changed.

Aang cries for a long time, face buried in the crook of his arm, other hand cramping Zuko's fingers together so hard that they start tingling with pain. Neither of them let go, though. Zuko ended up with Sokka's Sunrise somehow, and he sips at it, balancing the stout glass on one of the stairs. He wishes briefly that he had a cigarette, but then he remembers the burns on Azula's back, and the craving vanishes. He kisses Aang's forehead and waits. The stars are starting to peek out from behind the clouds.

Finally, Aang lifts his head and kisses Zuko square on the mouth, sniffling. "How long?" he asks, voice raspy. "How long has it been happening, Zuko?"

Zuko stares at their hands. "On and off since I was thirteen," he says.

Aang shudders, a terrible, hurt sound escaping him. More tears slip from the corners of his eyes. He swipes them away. "I never knew."

"No one did. I made sure of it."

"Did Sokka know?"

"No. He still doesn't."

Now Aang looks up at him. "You didn't tell him?"

There's not a hint of confrontation in his voice, but Zuko gets defensive. "So what? I don't have to tell him everything."

"You _have_ to tell him this," says Aang.

"I will, in like—a few days. I just need this. Need things to be okay for a little while longer."

"Well, they're not okay," Aang says. "They haven't been okay since you were a child. And you've been dealing with this alone— _god_ ; no one has been there for you! Zuko, I'm going to be the best friend ever to you from now on, I swear. I'm never going to let you down again!"

"You've never let me down in the first place," says Zuko. He sips Sokka's drink. The laugh that bubbles out of him is abrupt and unbidden. "What were you planning to do if you actually reached my father in the courtroom? Yell him to death?"

"I was going to claw his eyes out," says Aang coldly, with utmost sincerity that sends a shiver down Zuko's spine. Then Aang snickers softly himself and rests his head against Zuko's shoulder. "Judge Kyoshi said she was compelled to assign me at least a few days of jail time because of, you know, the death threat. Guess how I got out of that?"

"How?"

"Called Bumi."

Zuko blinks. "Bumi. The old guy in your wedding party who has been eluding us for four fucking months?"

"The same. He's the mayor of a very, very small mountain town up north, so I left a message with the only grocery store, and he called back within ten minutes to attest to my contrition and harmlessness. I didn't even get fined."

"Aang, you are something else."

"So are you, Zuko. I—I can't fathom what you've been through."

Zuko doesn't respond to that. Aang twines their fingers together and holds them up to the sky, staring at their joined hands. When they first met, Aang's fingertips barely reached the center of Zuko's furthest joints. Now Aang's hands are bigger than his, evidencing the shadow of a much taller man still dormant in Aang's young adult body. He's not even twenty years old. They all forget that sometimes. Zuko places an arm around his best friend and tugs him closer, tired, all cried out.

They're still sitting like that when Zuko's phone rings. Generic ringtone, local number. He answers.

"This is Zuko."

"Mr. Sozin, hello," says a smooth, shadowy voice. "This is June Nyla. I'm representing Zhang Yong Zhao in the State versus Ozai Sozin, with your mother as one of my witnesses."

"I remember," says Zuko, instantly wary. "What do you want?"

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in switching gears and testifying _against_ your father in his upcoming arraignment."

"What do you mean, 'upcoming?'" says Zuko. "The proceedings are well under way."

"Owing to a few unfortunate outbursts in the courtroom today that affected the jury's ability to deliver an impartial verdict, Judge Kyoshi was forced to declare a mistrial."

Zuko doesn't move. A high-pitched whining starts in his ears. "Tell me what that means for me."

June's voice grows softer. Zuko doesn't trust it all the way, but it doesn't sound disingenuous, either. "It wasn't your fault, Mr. Sozin. It wasn't your testimony. That stood its own ground as part of your father's timeline on the night of the murder. There were a few upsets after your friend was held in contempt. Mung lost his temper and had inelegant words with Her Honor in a public venue, and inadmissible evidence was negligently shared with the jurors. Judge Kyoshi has been required to step back from the case."

"So this starts all over?" Zuko says, feeling bizarrely calm. "Is my father out on bond?"

Aang sits bolt upright, but June quickly says, "No, no, he's too much of a flight risk. Judge Yangchen didn't set bail. And off the record, she can be even more of a hardass than Kyoshi, so you can expect her not to go lightly on your father. If—that news is comforting to you at all?"

Her relaxation of formality throws Zuko off-kilter. She is a much different kind of attorney than Mung, rigidly professional and in it for the money and publicity. Zuko can expect not to hear back from him. But June sounds like an actual human being. And while that's not enough to win Zuko's trust completely, it's a welcome break from the red tape and silver cufflinks of his experience with the courtroom; the form and ceremony and gravity. Zuko considers for a long time, staring into Aang's dark, disturbed eyes for counsel.

"Can I have a little time to think?" he says at last.

"Certainly. But think fast, please. We will be holding a hearing soon to decide if there is any reason to delay the second trial, and if no new evidence is reported, the case must proceed to court within ten days. Do you have my number?"

"I'll add it to my contacts."

"Thank you. And Mr. Sozin?"

"Yes?" says Zuko.

June pauses. "I think you were very brave," she says simply, and hangs up.

Zuko lets his phone fall back into his lap. He feels so strange. Still a little drunk, but focused and clear and seen. He's just opening his mouth to get Aang up to speed when his phone rings again.

"I said I'd think about it," he answers.

There's a click, and a recording begins: "This is a collect call from the Boiling Rock Penitentiary in Capital County that may be recorded and used as evidence. Inmate S-O-Z-I-N is attempting to reach you. Press 'one' to accept the charges."

Zuko grows cold all over. Starts shaking. Panic swamps him.

"It's my father," he whispers to Aang.

Aang seizes his hand, and _doesn't_ tell him to just hang up: he knows it's not that simple. "I'm here for you," he says instead, and seeing his best friend's eyes grow damp again with tears is enough to make Zuko's terror solidify slowly into cold, bright anger. _I'm not afraid of you, Father,_ he thinks, and even if that's not true, it's the first time he's said it to himself. That has to mean something. _I'm not fucking afraid of you anymore._

He presses one.

There's a whirr of a recording device, then a click as the system connects him to his father.

Zuko doesn't speak in greeting. He takes a sip of his drink and waits.

Finally, his father says, "I have to speak to you, Zuko."

"Then do it," says Zuko coolly.

"In person. Tomorrow."

"Not a chance in hell."

His father chuckles. It's a resonant, cruel sound; Zuko can almost feel the rumble of it in his own chest, the way he felt every movement his father made against him whenever they fucked lying down. Those times were rare. His father preferred to take him upright, from behind. Maybe so he couldn't see Zuko's face, because he was that much of a fucking coward. Zuko imagines him standing at the payphone now in his orange prison fatigues, unhurried despite the growing line behind him. Strong and handsome and clean and—

Zuko shakes his head furiously. His treacherous body still calls for him. But now he can take relief in the fact that that's going to change someday, because he's got Sokka here to lave him with softness, warmth, beauty. He turns to the window.

Sokka is visible at the end of the hallway, talking to Suki about something. They laugh together. She spills some of her drink. Sokka stoops down to sweep it up with a napkin and catches Zuko's eyes, breaking into a broad, gorgeous smile, and raises one hand shyly, as if it's their first time meeting at a party. Zuko's heart soars—

"It was him, wasn't it?" says his father. "That boy of yours. You betrayed me for him."

—and plummets. Zuko freezes. Frost climbs his limbs.

"Come see me tomorrow," his father says, and Zuko can see his gentle smile. "It's about Sokka."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you so much to the anon that pointed out that Zuko's relationship with Mai fell off so substantially!!! I had this chapter in mind, but in retrospect, it's definitely too little, too late. Might sprinkle in a few text messages between then and here at some point, so look for those if you ever reread, yeah? Hope you are all having a beautiful weekend.
> 
> AND HEY OAT MILK ANON: THANK YOU!!! YOU'RE A GENIUS!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished this chapter way earlier than I anticipated I would because your support has been overwhelming and motivating and incredible. Thank you so, so much for the encouragement. Fingers crossed that this chapter provides some long-awaited answers. Warnings for mentions of rape, grooming, consensual foreplay, and slight drunkenness. The cut last chapter forced a sort of weird opening to this chapter that I don't love, but maybe it'll be less jarring when you reread, and both halves are available.
> 
> I am SO sorry to be behind on review replies!! I will get on that ASAP.

"Sokka's name sounded so wrong in my father's voice," Zuko says, when he finishes tossing back the shot of vodka Toph brought him. He shudders at its sharpness, but thinks he'd better get used to it: he intends to drink a lot tonight, and he's swearing off the wines and cocktails his father used to ply him with to get him to loosen up. Never worked, now that Zuko's thinking about it. The first kiss always caught him like a slap in the face. Toph reflexively poured a shot for Aang too, and Zuko reaches for it now, but Aang pulls it away and dumps it out over the edge of the fire escape. "Hey," Zuko snaps.

"Getting wasted is not the answer," says Aang.

"But the question," Zuko says, "is what he knows about Sokka that I don't. And there's only one thing I can think of."

Aang licks his lips and says nothing. He understands, too: if Zuko's father has any idea why Sokka left the state, he probably perpetrated the disappearance himself in some way.

"Do you think he threatened him?" asks Zuko. "Said he'd hurt him if he didn't leave?"

"I think it's more likely that he threatened to hurt _you_. And I think you're torturing yourself by speculating, and that's what he wants. To hurt you even more. That pathetic, sick, _evil_ —damn it." Aang's crying again; he turns his head and wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, catching the tears as they run down his face. With his free hand, he grips Zuko's shoulder. "Don't go, Zuko," he says. "Please, please don't go. It can only end badly."

"I have to," says Zuko. "I need to know what he said to him."

"Talk to Sokka first. Maybe he'll tell you himself."

"Aang, you know he won't. He didn't tell Katara. Didn't tell Suki. He intended to take this secret to the grave, and this might be my only chance to learn what made me worth abandoning back then." Zuko squeezes his eyes shut and laughs bitterly, head in his hands. "And there it is. It's all about _me,_ isn't it?"

"Yes," says Aang simply. "This is exactly about you, and the answers you deserve. But there's got to be a way for you to get them without playing into your dad's hands."

"Oh, I have extensive experience with my dad's hands," says Zuko, chuckling—and winces when Aang drops his head into his arms and begins hitching with sobs again. "Fuck. I'm so sorry, Aang. I don't know why I said that."

"You should press charges," Aang says, voice muffled.

"For what?" asks Zuko.

"Incest? Rape?"

Zuko's throat begins closing up. "No. I should've specified—it wasn't rape, Aang."

Aang lifts his head incredulously. "Sorry?"

"It wasn't rape. I consented to—"

"You were _thirteen!"_ Aang shouts at him, eyes gleaming with tears. "You were a _child_ , Zuko! Consent wasn't an _option!"_

"When I turned eighteen, though. When—"

"No. No. I can't—oh god, Zuko, he hurt you so bad, and you don't even know it."

The vodka's kicking in. Zuko feels his concern for Aang muddying with confusion and shame. Aang doesn't get it. Zuko could've said 'no' at any point in his relationship with his father, but he didn't. He got on his knees; he accepted the roses; he fetched and lit the cigarettes afterward. What could strong, lovely Aang possibly know of such submission, such disgrace? Zuko turns away. His face is hot with humiliation.

"You don't get it," he says.

"You're right," says Aang. "You're absolutely right. I can't understand what you've been through."

"No. I mean, you don't know what it's like to be so weak."

"Hey," Aang snaps, and shakes him until he makes eye contact. "Zuko, you don't get to talk about yourself that way. Not even before I knew what you were going through, and certainly not now that I've seen you be kind and tender and true and loving despite all of the horrible things that've been done to you. You're going to get through this, okay? And you don't have to do it alone anymore. Are you listening?"

Zuko nods, but it gets away from him, his head lolling. He smiles. "I love you, Aang."

"I love you too. Let me take you home. Whether or not you go see him tomorrow, you need to rest now. You're drunk and exhausted."

"I'm not—" but as soon as he starts to say it, his eyelids droop. He sags against Aang. Aang stacks all their empties—all of _Zuko's_ empties—in one hand, and uses the other to open the window and hoist Zuko to his feet by the elbow. Zuko tries to swing one leg through the frame and misses, kicking the brick facing. He hisses in pain.

"Little help, please?" Aang says, flagging down the first person who passes by inside the apartment: Katara. She stops in her tracks when she sees them. Her expression becomes grief-stricken.

"You two look like you've been through hell," she says.

"I'm fine, but I want to put Zuko to bed," says Aang, voice strained.

She moves to the window and helps Zuko struggle through it. "Won't you please tell me what's going on?" she asks quietly, supporting him around the waist with both arms as she walks him down the hallway.

"I wish everyone would stop asking questions," says Zuko. "I wish none of this had ever happened." Suddenly, mortifyingly, he's choked up and furious. He laughs instead, short and hysterical. "I just wanted to marry Sokka!"

"Oh, Zuko," says Katara in a soft, fragile voice—then pulls up short, because Sokka appears around the corner at a healthy stride that halts too suddenly for him not to have overheard. He swallows perceptibly, gaze growing blurry with tears. The two of them stare at each other for what feels like a very long time before Aang shuts the window with purposeful force to get them moving again, and Katara resumes helping Zuko toward the door. Sokka looks like he wants to take her place, but Zuko turns his head away, ashamed, and the opportunity passes them by.

"We need to get going," says Katara. "Thank you so much for everything, Suki, Toph."

"Drop by anytime you want to appear under obviously traumatic circumstances, drink all of someone's alcohol, and then bail without explanation," says Toph from the couch, where she's sipping Ketel One like it's water. Then: "You guys'll get through this. You're tough little bastards."

"Thanks," says Katara, without sarcasm.

"Bye, Suki. Bye, Toph," says Aang.

Toph tosses out a peace sign without looking back.

Sokka and Suki hug. Suki says something under her breath that Zuko doesn't catch, her hands on Sokka's hips. Then Sokka throws his arms around her again and holds on so tightly that Zuko realizes he's witnessing a private moment. He looks away and follows Katara down the stairs toward the parking lot, struggling to keep his balance.

Aang's cheery orange Smart car fits four, barely. Zuko climbs into the cramped backseat, but instead of waiting for shotgun, Katara squeezes in beside him and grips his hand. She's still wearing her beautiful blue dress, just like Zuko is still in his black trousers, wrinkled now, his tie tucked into his front shirt pocket. He begins patting around for his jacket. "I think I forgot my—"

"I've got it," says Sokka, reappearing with Zuko's suit coat. He doesn't pass it back, instead holding it in his own lap as he climbs into the car beside Aang.

"My place or yours?" Aang asks Zuko.

Zuko gasps with feigned affont. "I'm not that kind of date!"

Aang doesn't laugh. "You and Sokka can have the bed if you stay over. Katara and I bought an air mattress."

"I'm not displacing you in your own apartment," Zuko says, dropping the joke. "The penthouse is fine. Thank you for the ride."

"You're welcome," says Aang. He sounds very, very tired. "Do you want us to stay with you?"

"No. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Do that." There's a hard, inarguable edge to his voice. His eyes meet Zuko's in the rearview mirror just once before he pulls out of the parking space and begins driving.

He prefers backroads to the highway, so the trip takes some time. Zuko finds himself nodding off against the window before Katara pulls him onto her own shoulder, stroking his hair and humming to him, like Sokka does, and Zuko drifts in and out, like the light that streams in from the streetlamps at slow, sleepy intervals. He catches the barest hints of whispered conversation: "—me what he said in—" "—can't, Katara. I want to, but I—" "—people he trusts right now. Can we just do that?"

"Yes." Sokka's voice, suddenly, clear as day. "I'm never leaving him again. Not for the world."

Zuko fades away, warm and content.

Eventually he starts blinking, waking up properly for the first time since Suki and Toph's, and finds himself being walked into his living room and deposited onto his couch. Sokka sets to work gently untying Zuko's expensive loafers, easing them off by the heel and placing them nearby. When he moves to unroll Zuko's socks, Zuko nearly kicks him in the face on reflex.

"No! My feet are gross!"

Sokka sits back. "Your feet are perfect, but okay. I'll let you do that yourself," he says. He, like Aang, sounds exhausted, but he's still got it within him to smile a little. _He doesn't know._ "Do you want to take a shower?"

Just the thought makes Zuko's eyelids flutter with anticipation. "Yes." Wash this whole day off of him. Let it all run down the fucking drain. He pushes himself upright and finds that he's stable enough to walk on his own, and his sleepy inebriation is melting into a sharp, steely sadness. He picks up his shoes and puts them by the mat. Azula's black pumps are still missing from her shoe rack. He wonders briefly if she's still with their mother, if he should call her. Then Sokka begins pulling him gently toward the shower, and Zuko gets a better idea.

"Come in with me," Zuko says, when they're in the bathroom, and Sokka is checking the water's temperature over the back of his hand.

Sokka fidgets. "Oh, I—I think you need the alone time."

"Do I?" asks Zuko. He unfastens his button-down slowly, deliciously, and hears Sokka gulp as he slides his belt free from its loops and slips out of his undershirt. His trousers are next, then his briefs and socks, and Sokka is still meeting his eyes when Zuko takes his hands and places them on his bare ribcage. "Touch me, Sokka," he says, barely recognizing his own voice. Steam whispers from the showerheads and curls around them. He gets his fingertips around Sokka's waistband and begins tugging his shirt up over his head.

Sokka resists for a few seconds, shoulders tense. Then it's like something uncoils inside him, and he relaxes all at once, fighting his shirt out of the way so he can crush his mouth against Zuko's. They kiss deeply, slowly. Zuko unzips Sokka's pants and strips him of his boxers with a greedy swipe of his palms, warm against Sokka's ass. Sokka kicks out of his socks, clumsy, then backs Zuko into the shower with accidental force and bumps him against the wall. Zuko huffs a little with the impact. Sokka immediately freezes, streams of hot water sticking his hair to his wet, flushed cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," says Zuko. He kisses Sokka again, taking his time. "You're so beautiful, Sokka. I can't believe you're mine again."

"Never stopped being yours," says Sokka.

"Even when—"

"No. It's you. It's only ever been you, Zuko."

He presses back against him. Zuko sighs against his mouth, eyes closed. His hands find Sokka's smooth chest, and he thumbs at his hard, dusky nipples until Sokka shudders. Sokka runs one of his knees lightly between Zuko's legs, thigh brushing against the underside of his balls, his growing arousal. Zuko thrusts against him. It's hard to get the friction he wants with both showerheads raining down on them, but the heat is nice, and he reaches in to make his own pressure by squeezing their dicks closer together in one hand.

That's when he finds that Sokka is not erect.

Now it's Zuko's turn to freeze. "Oh, shit. Sokka, I'm sorry. Is this just—am I not—?"

"No, no, you're flawless," Sokka says, and his flush isn't just from the shower's temperature. Abruptly his eyes are filling, and he tries to look away, but Zuko catches his chin in one hand and forces him to meet his gaze.

"Talk to me, Sokka. It's going to be okay, but we have to communicate."

"I'm just—I'm so overwhelmed. I can't stop thinking about you."

Zuko shifts his hips a little, struggling for a smile. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"I mean, I can't stop thinking about what you're going through! Half the time you're in fucking pieces. The other half, you're so courageous and together and avoidant that I feel like I have to process your stress for you, in _addition_ to all of my own, and—"

"What is causing you stress?" asks Zuko, stroking Sokka's face.

"Not the point, Zuko!"

"Please humor me."

Sokka makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His expression grows desperate. "It scares me how much I love you," he says at last. "How fucking— _frantic_ I am for you to love me back and forgive me, even when I know I haven't earned it. I feel like at any moment you're going to recant everything, and the worst part is I'll have deserved it, because I left you first. You were the best thing that I've ever known, that I could ever even conceive of, and I was still too weak to keep you! How could I have the fucking _nerve_ to ask for you again? Now that you're even stronger and more beautiful than you were when I first met you?"

"No," says Zuko, catching the back of his neck in a firm grip. "Don't think of it like that anymore. Not when I love you like this. Not now that you're back in my life, and you've made up your mind to be with me."

"But—"

"Sokka, I've asked you why you left. You couldn't answer me, and now I think I understand that a little, too. What it means to be holding onto something unspeakable, I mean."

Sokka regards him with beautiful, haunted eyes, and Zuko knows suddenly, without a doubt, that he is going to go see his father at the Boiling Rock tomorrow. Because he's weak, maybe. Because he's scared.

Because he has to know.

_Did he threaten you, Sokka? Did he threaten me? What did he leverage against you that carried the same weight as all of the love we were promised for the rest of our lives together?_

Zuko kisses Sokka again, but it feels feeble and traitorous now. Full of omission, deception. Neither of them are remotely aroused anymore, and Zuko pulls back, despairing, thinking about how another encounter of his now belongs to Ozai Sozin—how his father stains him like ink, one intimate, ruinable moment at a time—

—but then Sokka kisses him back, delicate as a landing butterfly. Kisses him and smiles at him like he's something that shines through the night. The shower has made thick, dark string of his hair, and tears are beaded on his lashes, but Sokka pulls Zuko into his arms again and holds him until both of them stop shaking. Zuko clings back, flooded with love and gratitude and disinfection. The constellation on the inside of Sokka's elbow is prominent in the misty light, and this time Zuko knows both Sokka and himself well enough to know it is safe to lower his mouth and kiss the stars.

They lather each other's hair and bodies, then rinse, then towel each other off on the bathmat. Zuko pulls on his favorite pair of sweatpants and nearly jumps Sokka when he tries on one of Zuko's pajama tops, a black cotton shirt that stretches tight against Sokka's shoulders and hips, highlighting the dark beauty spot under his left buttock. They end up in bed together, Sokka yawning on Zuko's chest as they read their own text messages.

 **Unknown sender:** Mr. Sozin, this is June Nyla. Contact me anytime.

 **Mai** : Half of me wishes I still didn't know. The other half hates me for not seeing it sooner. There are no words. You have my inexhaustible and unwavering support.  
**Mai** : The Daily Sun will not be going to press with the details of your abuse, and Lo and Li have successfully silenced the tabloids - for now. Hat and sunglasses if you or Azula leave the apartment and encounter paparazzi. Offer no comments.  
**Mai** : I can't stop thinking about you. I love you.

 **Aang** : (image attached)  
**Aang** : Thought you could use some sleeping Appa.  
**Aang** : (image attached)  
**Aang** : blep

 **Azula** : Mother had us shadowed by a private investigator, purportedly for our safety. Strange bastard with a third eye tattoo. If he managed to follow us both for a month without our noticing, I have to imagine Father could have similarly hired someone.  
**Azula** : Just something to keep in mind.

 _That's true_ , Zuko realizes, sickened. There's no way he could've known about Sokka without someone else reporting back to him. Were there witnesses with them at every restaurant? The Jasmine Dragon, Ember Island? Whose eyes shared in Zuko and Sokka's private kisses at the butterfly pavilion? Zuko feels violated. He stares down at Sokka as he whistles and thumbs through memes on his phone, queasy with protectiveness and anger and fierce affection.

 **Unknown sender** : My darling Zuko, I have no right to advise you, but I would like you to consider entering a witness protection program. You know well that there is no end to Ozai's depravity. I know you have fearless and loyal friends, but should you ever turn to me for support, you will find a wiser, braver, and stronger woman. I let you and Azula go once. I will not make that mistake again.

Tears slip down Zuko's face. He wipes them away. Sokka looks up at him.

"You okay?" he asks, nudging him with one foot.

"Fine," says Zuko. "Almost okay, really."

Sokka smiles. "Good," he says softly.

"Good," Zuko agrees.

They fall asleep together, hands touching on the pillow between them.

*

Instead of calling Aang directly the next morning, he calls the shop.

"Jasmine Dragon Teahouse!" Aang answers, with some of his normal chipperness. Work makes him happy. Zuko can just see him making drinks on the backline with the cord of the landline stretched across the room, deftly bouncing between the register and mixers and mini-fridges. The image alone makes a lump rise in Zuko's throat.

"Hi," he says, voice failing him for anything more ambitious.

"Zuko. Hi," says Aang gently.

"Hi."

"You said that. What is this? Are you actually nervous to talk to me?"

"No, of course not," says Zuko—realizing, suddenly, that he is. He doesn't know how he has changed in Aang's eyes, now that he can see through him to all the damage and fear and selfishness and cowardice. He feels like crying. Instead, he stares down the hall at his bedroom door, beyond which Sokka is still resting, brow furrowed with distress. He understands by now that Sokka sleeps poorly, even when they're together. He wonders if that would be different if he were stronger for him.

Over the phone, Aang chuckles. "Zuko—Bluespirit69—you weren't even this anxious the day you PMed me for a guild invite. Come on, now. We've known each other for too long for you to believe I'd ever, ever think badly of you, for any reason. Let alone one that wasn't your fault."

Zuko swallows. It is too early in the conversation to be this emotional. "Maybe it was my fault, though. Maybe—"

"Nope," says Aang, simply and unquestionably. Cuts that conversation cleanly through before it can even begin, as if the thought is too ridiculous to even entertain. "Thank you for calling me. Why this number, though?"

"I actually wanted to talk to Uncle too. I think I want to ask him to go with me to see Father today."

"I think that's a great idea," Aang says. "I mean—I think seeing him at all is a _terrible_ idea, ha, but Uncle Iroh is the best there is. I'll put him on now."

"Wait. Aang?"

"Yeah?"

He hesitates. God, he's so choked up. "You're—you're the best there is, too," he says ineptly, wincing as the clumsy words come out. "I really mean that."

There's a warm pause. "You are, too. Be careful today. Everyone is rooting for you."

They are, aren't they? Mai and his mother and Lo and Li, even; Toph and Suki; Katara; Sokka himself. Zuko takes a deep breath that breaks in the middle and thinks about how blessed he is to have so many people who love him. He's sniffing a little by the time his uncle takes the phone.

"Zuko? Are you okay?" asks Uncle Iroh in greeting.

"Yes, I'm fine, Uncle. I was wondering if you could do me a big favor."

"Anything," says Uncle.

"Could you come with me to see Father in prison today?"

Uncle is quiet for a moment. In the silence, Zuko can hear all the things he isn't saying: _I don't want to enable this. I can't bear to see you hurt again. I love you, Nephew._ But what Uncle says at last is, "Of course. Visiting hours are soon, aren't they? I'll be there to pick you up shortly."

"I can just meet you there. I know the apartment is out of the way."

"I'd prefer to drive you myself."

Zuko acquiesces with reluctance, understanding the implication that he might not be stable enough to drive after the visit, and Uncle hangs up. Zuko sits in the living room for a while, getting his breathing under control. Then he pastes on a smile and returns to his bedroom.

Sokka is just now stirring, eyes opening and closing as he fights to wake up. Eventually he settles into a sleepy smile, stopping Zuko's heart. He kicked off most of the covers during the warm night, baring his long, lovely legs, the sinuous and well-muscled curves of his calves. Zuko runs one hand along Sokka's thigh as he leans in to kiss him, even when Sokka tries to dodge him, citing morning breath. "Every bit of you is perfect," Zuko says, and kisses him lingeringly on the mouth.

"Brave man," Sokka mumbles, kissing back. He sits up. "What time is it?"

"Almost two."

"Really? Fuck. I should get up."

"We had a late night. You should rest more, if you like."

"No, I've gotta get some things done today," Sokka groans. Zuko helps him sit up, and Sokka sits there with his hair in his face, blinking blearily. He eyes Zuko's dark jeans and red shirt. "You look nice. Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes," says Zuko, and doesn't explain, even when Sokka raises an eyebrow at him.

"Okay," Sokka says eventually. He doesn't pursue that, and Zuko loves him a little more for it. "When do you think you'll be back?"

"Maybe in an hour and a half?"

"Cool. That gives me enough time."

"To do what?"

"Hey, you have your secrets, I have mine. Now lemme go brush my teeth so I can kiss you properly."

They end up making out right up until the concierge buzzes Zuko down to greet Uncle Iroh in the lobby. Zuko groans, sliding his hands out from beneath Sokka's shirt and standing up to smooth the wrinkles out of his own. Sokka tries to pull him back, and Zuko almost caves in right there and crawls back into bed with him—but no. He's got to do this. It's the last thing he needs before he can begin putting all of this behind him. "I'll be back soon," he promises.

"Take your time," says Sokka, stretching langorously.

Zuko catches him with one last kiss, because he really is fucking irresistable with mussed hair and swollen lips, then puts on his shoes, a black cap, and his aviators, then slips into the private elevator.

Downstairs, Uncle has a bubble tea waiting for him in one hand. "Panda Sunrise with half-sugar and coffee jelly," he says, passing it off.

"I love you, Uncle," Zuko replies, and says it with accidental weight, not meaning just the drink.

Uncle cups Zuko's cheek. His eyes are grave, bright. "I love you too, Nephew."

They drive to the Boiling Rock in complete silence. Zuko looks out the window as the miles of desert blur by, his thoughts as blank as the landscape. The penitentiary's placement here is not coincidental, of course. Were an inmate to escape, they'd have hours left to walk in the baking sun, 'DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS' signs posted at regular intervals along the road. Orange jumpsuits like warning flags. A prison outside the prison.

Zuko used to think that his father would transcend the stain of serving time, if he were convicted. The wardens favor him at the Boiling Rock, his eminence and dignity and bribes, and he'd rule the prison population before being inevitably paroled due to media pressure. The idea of him serving a full sentence never felt real.

At least before now.

 _You should press charges_ , Aang said. _Incest. Rape._

Zuko shakes off that thought and finishes his coffee. He can't imagine that. Can't imagine being back on the stand with the intent to put his father behind bars with any sort of permanence. What kind of son would he be, if he did that?

What kind of lover?

*

Security is always a nightmare, but Uncle and Zuko are seasoned veterans by now. They know when to lift their arms and shake out their hair, when to remove their shoes, to show the bottoms of their feet and pull out their pockets. They retrieve their wallets and keys at the end of the x-ray machine conveyor belt.

"Good to see you again, Iroh," says one of the guards as he passes by, making Zuko wonder how often his uncle visited his father here without his knowing. What could they have spoken about? They were never close, never shared meals or hobbies or holidays while Zuko and Azula were growing up, but Zuko has to imagine that Uncle was honorable and gracious throughout his brother's indictment. His father wouldn't have returned the courtesy, were their situations reversed—the crazy, tea-obsessed failure; the shame of the family—but Uncle likely showered Zuko's father with tireless support.

It makes Zuko angry, and that anger fuels his ability to hold onto his coldness, his stoniness. He breaks face once to smile at Mai's uncle, small and shy, communicating more in his tentativeness than he could in words. The warden smiles back at him, warmly. He leads them past the room where Zuko last met with his father, further down the corridor.

"Wait," says Zuko. "Where are we going?"

"Your father has lost his unsupervised visitation rights," says the warden.

"How? Why?"

"The charges against him have been compounded following the release of new evidence."

"What new evidence?" asks Uncle Iroh.

The warden shakes his head. "I wasn't informed. You'll have to ask him."

He opens the door to a rush of noise. Zuko steps back, disoriented. Conversation rushes toward him in waves, some of it angry and loud, some tearful, some hushed and loving and reverent. The long room is lined on both sides with thick windows, blue plastic chairs arranged before cramped stalls that ensconce one prisoner each. There are telephones in every booth. Zuko sees immediately that they are not recording devices: the phones simply connect conversationalists, like two tin cans linked by string. Useless for surveillance. Zuko looks at Uncle, and sees that he understands, too.

"I hope you didn't set out to evoke some sort of on-record confession from your father," he says.

"No, that wasn't the intention," says Zuko. "I'm just here because I have to know."

"Have to know about what?" Uncle asks.

Zuko swallows. His jaw throbs from clenching it. "Sokka."

The warden leads them to the furthest cubicle and fetches an extra chair. "Two visitors for Inmate Sozin," he says into his radio, and receives a staticky affirmative from a cohort on the other side of the bars. The hand he rests briefly on Zuko's shoulder in comfort is unprofessional, but deeply appreciated. "Have a seat," he says. "He'll be here shortly."

Zuko waits for his uncle to get settled before sitting down himself. An act of respect, in acknowledgement of Uncle's seniority. Uncle clasps Zuko's hand in his own. "You are a good man," he says, and Zuko steadies himself on that praise: _I am a good man. I am good._

A moment later, his father emerges from the side door and sits down before him, smiling with dangerous gentility.

His long hair has been cut short, and he's wearing a red uniform now instead of orange. _High-risk_ , Zuko thinks. What could he have done to warrant the change of security in just one day? His father picks up his phone and places it against his ear, and gestures for Zuko to do the same. Zuko does. The receiver feels very, very cold in his hand.

"They found a shiv under my mattress," his father says casually, unprompted.

"Oh," says Zuko. His first contribution to the final conversation he ever intends to have with this man: _oh._

"You haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"Your testimony prompted police to look further into the possibility of blackmail. They found copies of the footage on a USB drive in his lockbox. One of our two office—dalliances."

 _Fuck._ Zuko burns with humiliation and self-disgust. Video documentation of his sexual relationship with his father, stashed in the hands of the police. Zhao knew, and took the opportunity to try to extort money from his father instead of turning it in himself. No wonder his father shot him. Zuko might shoot him too, if he had the chance. He sits very upright despite the searing heat in his cheeks, willing back tears. Under the desk, Uncle squeezes his fingers so hard that they ache. Zuko clings back.

"One of the assaults, you mean," he says.

"Is that what you're calling them now? Oh, Zuko. Such a pretty face with nothing behind it."

The compliment makes something tighten happily in his chest before its backhandedness lands. Zuko knows he was never the brilliant one, not next to Azula. He thought his father loved him in spite of that, but the tone of his voice might as well have said something crasser, crueler: _just a hot piece of ass._ Zuko's shame redoubles.

"I thought I meant something to you," Zuko says.

"I thought the same of you," says his father. "Instead you chose to air your indiscretions under oath."

" _Our_ indiscretions, and I was just being honest. Isn't that something you've always taught me to value, Father? Honor?"

"Loyalty," his father corrects.

Zuko opens his mouth to argue with that, but it's true, isn't it? He was never meant to be forthright. Not if it came down to morality versus devotion. He was supposed to lie for him on the stand, and everyone knew what was being asked of him—Aang and Katara, Mai, Sokka, even Toph. Zuko himself was the only one who didn't understand the price of being faithful to Ozai Sozin.

He was a fucking fool.

"Tell me what you know about Sokka," he asks, voice catching in his throat.

His father laughs. "Ah, yes. The paramour. My agents were surprised to see that one reappear in your life; such an extraordinary plot twist. I can hardly blame you for jumping ship. He grew up well, didn't he? Quite the mouth on that one, in more than one sense."

Zuko doesn't like his father's tone. Doesn't take the bait. He waits, Uncle Iroh's hands firm around his own, and keeps his chin high until his father leans forward, smiling.

"I fucked your boy," his father says, with deliberate calm. "Had him the morning after you introduced us, while you were out on your run. He cried for you when I came inside him."

No. _No._

All of the noise in the room drops away, and suddenly everything is shadowy and distant and moving slowly, as if underwater. Zuko's vision seems to tunnel. His father's face is very pale in the center of the darkness.

Zuko hears his own voice say, "You're lying."

"The beauty mark on the back of his thigh is delicious," his father says. "Made to be fucked, that one. All I ever had to do was invoke your name, and he'd spread his legs for me, thinking he was protecting you. Does he know that I've had you both? Will you ruin him with that knowledge, Zuko?"

His mind is reeling. He'd fall if it weren't for Uncle's sudden grip on his elbow. It can't be. This can't be right. The morning after their first time, while Zuko was out jogging? When he came back, Sokka was already awake and showered, standing in front of the summerhouse's gigantic guest bathroom mirror with his hands on his smooth, heaving abdomen. Crying a little. Zuko asked, terrified, and Sokka _smiled_ at him. Laughed with tears in his eyes— _Zuko, I'm just happy—so happy_ —

"Ten or eleven times over the course of that month, I should say," muses his father. "When he wasn't with you, he was with me. Sucking me off. Learning how to ride a cock. I taught him everything he knew, in hopes that he'd pass it on to you. There's a poetry in that, don't you think? A father and his son should share as many experiences as possible. I'm grateful to have had your fiancé between us." He chuckles. "So to speak."

That's not possible. He and Sokka spent too much of their time together that summer, going to diners, making out in the car, watching Sokka's marching band practices—there would have been no opportunity for his father to have—

_Sorry, Zuko. I have to go straight home today._

_Sorry, Zuko. Feeling a little sick._

_Sorry, Zuko. I need a day to finish the drill._

So there were a few excuses. So what? Sokka needed time alone just like anyone else in the world. There was that week after they announced their engagement that Sokka was strange, yes, skittish and wary and shying away from touches, but after that, he was fine again. Flirty and sly. Insatiable. _Talented_. Could have passed for experienced, even. Though Zuko knew he was Sokka's first, and he himself had gone untouched for almost a year by then.

Zuko sits back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly to stop the spinning. He lowers the phone and takes a few deep breaths that crack on the exhales. When he returns the receiver to his ear, his father is watching him with a half-lidded gaze, as if aroused.

"If what you're saying is true," Zuko begins, voice shuddering, "then Sokka was—"

"Strong," his father agrees, smiling with soft fondness. "Deeply, unconditionally devoted to you. It took a lot to break him. He finally left the day I promised never to lay a hand on you if he agreed to remove himself from your life."

"Why?" Zuko whispers. "Why would you do that to me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" asks his father. He leans forward and presses one hand to the thick plastic between them. "I missed you."

Zuko drops the phone. One of his hands moves to meet his father's, well-trained from ten years of grooming, fingertips physically aching for contact. Millimeters away, though, Zuko stops. Something inside his chest seizes, then breaks. Frees itself. His arm falls back to his side. Then he stands up, pushes his chair in, and turns away from his father for the first and last time in his life.

Uncle Iroh hangs up the phone for him, and follows close behind.

"Are you finished with your conversation?" asks the warden at the door.

"Yes," says Zuko. "It's over."

*

Zuko doesn't break on his way out of the Boiling Rock. Doesn't break when he sits down in the car. Doesn't even break when Uncle Iroh asks him what his father said to him, and Zuko has to admit that he failed Sokka five years ago, that his father systematically raped his seventeen-year-old fiancé until he was forced to move states.

Uncle Iroh closes his eyes, in deep pain. "I feared this," he says.

"You did?" Zuko asks, head snapping up.

"When I invited Sokka to the Jasmine Dragon, I asked him what his intentions toward you were. He said, simply, that he didn't want to hurt you again. That he was 'going to be stronger this time.' He would not elaborate, but I intuited from him an unimaginable trauma. The same trauma I have long sensed in you, and which you have only recently and heroically named."

"We were going to get married," says Zuko numbly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I know."

"I let Father destroy us."

 _"No,"_ says Uncle, with such vehemence that Zuko looks up at him again. "Don't ever say that. You are not destroyed. You are strong and courageous and beautifully intact, and you and Sokka are going to get through this together."

And that's what makes Zuko crack. He throws his arms around Uncle's neck and lets the sobs pour out of him, and Uncle rocks him and shushes him like the child he never got to be.

"My boy," Uncle whispers over and over. "My brave, wonderful boy."

Zuko cries until the car gets perilously hot, and Uncle has to disengage to start the engine and roll down the windows. Sweat and tears bead Zuko's cheeks. He accepts the handkerchief Uncle always carries with him and uses it to wipe his face clean. "I'm okay now," he says, when Uncle leans toward him again. His own voice sounds foreign to him, young and coarse and altered.

"You're not," says Uncle, "but with help, you will be."

He drives Zuko back to the penthouse without asking. He knows that there's nowhere else Zuko could possibly go right now, that his only option is to see Sokka and confront him with the knowledge of his father's abuse. Zuko kisses Uncle and watches him drive away from the curb, feeling very lost and very determined at the same time. He sits outside on the steps for nearly half an hour, waiting for his eyes to be perfectly dry. This time, he is going to be the steady one. He is never going to let Sokka down again.

When he opens his front door, soft orchestral music drifts out. He pauses there on the mat, confused. Azula has hated classical ever since Father let her quit her piano lessons in college, and has never allowed it in the apartment. But her shoes are still missing, and now that Zuko's really listening, he recognizes the tune—a chamber arrangement of the Giroux he conducted during his final year of marching band. B flat, E flat, F, quarter rest—

In the center of the living room, by a vase that holds two white, smooth-stemmed calla lilies—their stark, simple beauty nothing like his father's red roses—Sokka is waiting for him on one knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were you guys right, or were you right??? I know you had this figured out from, like, chapter three, so I hope it still held some impact. [Tumblr here](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). Talk to me there about anything! Thank you so much for reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self-injury, discussion of sexual assault, and minor dissociation.
> 
> Apologies for the late update!! Got swept up in the holiday season. I can't remember my earlier estimate, but I think we're on track to end in three or four chapters, so please tell me what questions you still have or what you'd like to see/know before the epilogue!
> 
> Thank you so, so much for your interaction and kind words!! I'm going to be replying to older comments from chapters sixteen and seventeen right after this. I'm sorry for the delay, and hope your weeks went well.

The ring is shaped like a crown. Shimmering yellow gold, band spotted with small sapphires, a marquise-cut ruby inlaid in the center spike. Zuko stares at it numbly as Sokka presents it to him in a battered red velvet box. "I carry it everywhere," Sokka says, to explain away its damage. "Wore the ring on a chain around my neck for years after I moved, but seeing it every day was such a reminder, and I was weak. But I'm not going to be weak anymore, Zuko. Not if you'll have me forever."

Zuko doesn't move as Sokka stands and delicately picks up Zuko's left hand in his right one, stroking his knuckles with the pad of his thumb. God, he is the most beautiful person Zuko has ever seen: he's staring somewhere near Zuko's mouth, long lashes lowered, and his lips tremble a little before he presses them together and struggles for a smile.

"I know something happened to you in the courtroom," Sokka says. "I can't imagine what. I just wanted you to know that I'm in this with you, no matter what you're going through. I don't flatter myself with the belief that you need me the way I need you, but—"

"I do need you," says Zuko, drawing close and seizing Sokka's face with his free hand. "Oh, Sokka. I—"

_I know what he did to you._

Images of his father and Sokka together swim before him. Sokka in the silk sheets. His father's mouth on Sokka's perfect shoulders. Zuko blinks the visions back, eyes filling with tears, and Sokka sees that he's been crying.

"Zuko, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Let's sit down," says Zuko. He begins leading Sokka to the couch.

For some reason, perhaps seeing something in his expression, Sokka resists him. "Why?"

"Sokka, please."

"No, I—I'm scared. What's going on?" He laughs, thin and nervous. "Why does this feel like a breakup?"

"It's not. That's the last thing this is. But it—we have to talk, okay? And I need to say some things that are going to upset you a lot. We're going to get through it, though. Is that all right? Will you sit down with me and listen and trust me for a minute?"

"Zuko, I'll trust you for the rest of my life," says Sokka, with such easy conviction that Zuko manages a long, deep breath.

"Me too." He pats the sofa beside him. "Please."

Sokka sets the ring on the small table, turns off the music, and sits down next to Zuko, pulling his hands back into his lap. Zuko shifts so that he is the one holding Sokka instead of the other way around, and he sees Sokka register the adjustment, tensing as he wills himself not to jerk away. He looks trapped. Scared. Zuko leans and presses a long, firm kiss to his mouth, holding there for longer than necessary, just breathing Sokka in. Adrenaline courses through him one fast wave at a time, making him feel motion sick. He meets Sokka's eyes.

"Sokka," he says, forcing his voice into a calm, precise register, "my father told me what he did to you that summer."

And that's true only on the most literal of bases. Are there even any words for the damage he imparted upon Sokka? He ravaged him mere hours after he met him, and that assault is ongoing in too many ways, from Sokka's slackening jaw and hands, to the hazy confusion in his eyes as he draws away, shaking his head.

After a very long time, he laughs. It's a small, uncertain sound. He blinks at Zuko.

Zuko just waits. Watches it dawn on Sokka's face, feeling nauseated and helpless and deeply, deeply in love.

Abruptly, Sokka crumbles. His eyes shut and he begins trembling, which hurts, but not as bad as the sudden, vicious motion he uses to drag his fingernails down his forearms, leaving long, raised scratches.

"Sokka!" Zuko cries, seizing his wrists to halt him. A mistake: Sokka _frenzies_ , tearing himself out of Zuko's grip so fast that he slips off the couch, then skitters onto his feet and begins pacing in fast, rigid lines. He scratches at his arms again, then his left shoulder, then his neck. Zuko leaps to stop him again, this time realizing his mistake and catching him in a loose, careful hug instead, and Sokka's knees give out as Zuko eases him to the floor. He curls into Zuko's arms there on the hardwood, gasping wetly. Zuko just holds him. He shushes him and presses kisses into his hair and holds him.

He struggles for the beginnings of several sentences. "He wasn't—" is one of them. "I tried—" is another. Finally, Sokka sobs, "I cheated," and damned if that doesn't break Zuko's heart into a million fucking pieces. He pulls Sokka closer and devours his mouth, hands knotted at the back of his shirt.

"He raped you," Zuko says when he leans back, almost choking on the words.

"I _went_ to him, Zuko! I—"

"No, Sokka. He _raped_ you."

"No," insists Sokka, and Zuko gets it, because he's been there, too: he'd rather be a cheater than a victim, just like Zuko would rather be a dutiful son than a dirty one. But the violence was forced on them and it's not their fault, and Zuko tells Sokka as much, whispering it between kisses.

"This isn't on you, Sokka. It's not on you, and it isn't on me either. What my father did to us was—"

"He hurt you?" Sokka's voice goes shrill. "He—when did—?"

"It started when I was thirteen," Zuko says, and almost passes for calm before Sokka lets out a wail of pure pain and outrage, hurling himself at Zuko again and knocking them both to the ground. Sokka seizes Zuko's chin and kisses him back, mouth open and damp. They make out forcefully, confusedly. Sokka reaches for the button on Zuko's jeans, and Zuko extricates himself, panting, comprehending for the first time the deep wounds that make Sokka compulsively seek moderation through inappropriately-timed sex.

How many times did he have to negotiate for his safety with his body? Did he have to defuse assaults with fake consent? Pretend they were on his own terms? Now that Zuko is beginning to understand his father's actions as violence, he can too easily imagine him batting Sokka around, holding him at the throat, gripping his wrists. Things Sokka will probably never talk about. Things Zuko doesn't want to hear about, unless it'd help Sokka cope.

"I'll fucking kill him," Sokka swears, so strongly echoing Aang that Zuko is chilled: neither he nor Aang were speaking hypothetically. They mean to end his father's life, given the chance. And for a terrible moment, Zuko is simply relieved that his father is safe from them. Safe behind bars.

Zuko clenches his jaw. He'll love his father for a long time. He gets that now. He's been too manipulated, too abused to just let him go.

But he loves Sokka more.

That understanding shatters him and strengthens him at the same time. Zuko stands up and pulls Sokka back onto the couch, both of them stumbling, legs barely holding them. Once they're settled again, Sokka climbs into Zuko's lap and sobs.

They're good, healthy tears, at least. Self-aware and broken and seemingly endless, but not misunderstanding. Achingly cognizant. Zuko strokes Sokka's hair and cries too, for Sokka and for himself, for the stained time between them. Sokka's throat is red with angry scratches. Zuko doesn't kiss them. They must sting. Sokka buries his face against Zuko's shoulder.

"I don't know how to move on from this," he chokes out. "I don't know how to face you after failing you so badly. I don't _deserve—"_

"We deserve each other," says Zuko firmly. "We deserve to be happy."

Sokka leans back. Tears spill down his face; Zuko thumbs them away. "Do I make you happy?"

Zuko is staggered. "How could you ask me that? How could you not know—"

"I mean, even now? Knowing that I'm—used?"

"Am I used, Sokka?" asks Zuko.

Sokka's mouth drops open in shock. He clasps Zuko's cheeks with both hands. "No. Zuko, no."

"I was at least as 'willing' as you were, and for longer," he says, and he thought he was only trying to make a point to Sokka, but the evidence keeps spilling out. "I let him romance me. I didn't tell anyone, even though he was burning and beating Azula. I didn't protect you. I even planned to lie for him in court."

"But you didn't, did you?" asks Sokka, with sudden realization. "That's what happened. You told the truth, to him and everyone else you know."

"Yeah," Zuko whispers. "Yeah, I did."

More tears. He tastes the salt in them as Sokka surges forward to kiss him, driving him against the cushions of the couch. "Brave, beautiful Zuko," he breathes, caressing Zuko's face. He's looking at him with pure admiration and infinite love. "You're fucking amazing, you know that? You're the strongest person I've ever met."

"Same to you," says Zuko.

Sokka, legitimately taken aback, scoffs. "How can you say that? I fucking _fled!"_

"You carried a terrible secret alone for years in order to keep me safe."

"Yeah, and look how well that worked out," says Sokka, bitter and full of self-hatred. "I left you for nothing. I left you alone with him. I should've known just by his threat that something was already wrong between you two."

"What did he say?" asks Zuko, not sure he wants to know. "How bad was it to make you leave?"

"He told me that it would be 'a shame' if anything were to happen to you." A shudder ripples through him. He leans in to hold Zuko again, shaking. "It wasn't what he said, it was how he said it, and when. We were—" Sokka's fingers knot in Zuko's shirt. Zuko wants to tell him it's okay, he doesn't have to talk about it; but Sokka's purging poison now. He brings it out with convulsive effort, voice cracking: "He had me blindfolded. His hands were on my neck. And I just knew in that second what he could do to me, and to you."

Zuko rocks him close again, hand on the back of his head, tangling in his hair. He inhales Sokka's scent.

"The first time," says Sokka, "I couldn't believe what was happening. I—woke up and he was _in_ me. I don't think I even screamed. And every time after that, I thought—'I can bear this. For Zuko, I can bear anything.' Except that last time. He threatened you, and I—I broke. I _lost_. I just got onto a bus that day with my phone and wallet and his—his fucking fingerprints on my hips and I didn't stop until I was in Katara's arms."

A shuddery sob escapes Zuko. "You're in mine now. And we're going to get some help."

"Zuko—?"

"Both of us," he affirms. "Together."

He folds an arm around Sokka's waist to lower him onto the couch, kisses him, then clambers to his feet. The velvet jewelry box is still open on the table. Zuko picks it up and pulls the ring free, studying the beautiful eye-shaped ruby, the constellation of sapphires around the gold band. "Was it expensive?" he asks softly.

"I mean, relative to whom?" asks Sokka, laughing a little and wiping at his face. "It's probably worth, like, an hour's salary to you."

"It's worth the world to me, idiot," Zuko says.

Sokka turns onto one elbow and looks over at him. His cheeks are flushed from crying. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Zuko. "Are you going to put this on me or what?"

"Oh my god," says Sokka. He scrambles off the sofa so fast that he strikes his shin on the coffee table and doubles over to clutch at it, hissing. Zuko snickers. He waits as Sokka catches his breath, then limps over to him, his eyes red and shiny. Sokka seizes his hands and begins dropping to his knee. Zuko hauls him back upright by the collar.

"No, no. You stay on my level. You've never lowered yourself for anyone, and you're not gonna start with me."

It seems to stun Sokka. He leans back, clearly startled by the assessment—then moved. _You've never lowered yourself for anyone._ Sokka beams brilliantly, then, and Zuko's heart swells so strongly that he finds it difficult to speak. He swallows. Tears trickle from his eyes; he rubs them away with his arm.

"I love you, Sokka," says Zuko.

"I love you too," Sokka returns. "I've always loved you." He takes the ring from Zuko and tenderly clutches his wrist as he applies the band to the correct finger.

It glides on beautifully. The fit is flawless. He and Zuko both stop breathing once it's in place, just admiring it there, how shiny and perfect it looks on Zuko's hand. Zuko smiles so widely that his face aches. Sokka bumps noses with him, grinning himself, and lets their foreheads touch as he peppers Zuko's cheeks with soft, abundant kisses.

When Zuko reaches up to cup Sokka's neck and kiss him back, Sokka winces. They pull apart, and Zuko studies Sokka's throat, still lined with angry scratch marks.

"Oh, honey," Zuko whispers. He takes Sokka's hand. "Let's clean you up."

They go to the bathroom. Zuko turns on the faucet and gets a stream of warm water running, then wets a washcloth and begins dabbing at Sokka's scratches. Fuck, he'll never forget the sight of Sokka tearing at himself like that. It'll haunt him forever. He pats all the abrasions with soap and water. Sokka's nails are mercifully blunt; there's only one half-inch of broken skin near his elbow. Zuko disinfects it and smooths a bandage over it, then fetches an aloe vera cream for the other scrapes.

It's delicate work, patting it into Sokka's beautiful, abraded skin. Sokka watches with an almost clinical disinterest, eyes glazing over, and Zuko realizes that he might be lightly dissociating. Zuko brings him back with a gentle squeeze to the shoulder, lowering the adjustable lights to a dim, relaxing level. Sokka's eyes refocus on his.

"Okay?" Zuko asks.

Sokka nods.

He resumes skimming Sokka's injuries with the cream. His head is still down when Sokka says, suddenly, "He gave you the scar."

Zuko stills. He doesn't look up.

"We've never talked about it," says Sokka. "It's because it was him."

He closes his eyes. Fuck, he just can't stop crying today; tears sting behind his lids. He feels his breaths beginning to shorten, but then Sokka's hand is on his face, calming, unselfconsciously cupping his temple as if the skin there were smooth and undamaged. When he finally raises his head, Sokka kisses him hard on the lips. They make out for a long, delicious time, fingers tangled together.

Eventually Sokka's phone interrupts them.

Sokka pulls away reluctantly to check the caller ID, then grins and picks up. "Hello, Mister Sokka Sozin speaking," he says.

Suki's voice blares out of the receiver, as loud as if she were in the room with them. _"Sokka, you little fuck! I told you not to go through with it! Do you have any idea what that boy is going through?"_

"Well, he said 'yes,'" Sokka says weakly, wincing.

 _"Moron!"_ she snaps, not without great affection, then continues at a lower volume, dropping out of Zuko's earshot. Sokka makes a 'I have to take this' gesture, and Zuko nods, leaving him to it and retreating out toward the kitchen.

Azula is inside the apartment now, standing in the living room with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed at the calla lilies and empty ring box. Without her heels on, she looks almost comically small, but Zuko still freezes when he sees her. She spots him as he begins backing away into his bedroom and rounds on him, snapping her fingers. "Oh no, Zuko, you come here right now," she demands.

Hanging his head, Zuko joins her further into the room, hands behind his back.

"Let's see it," she says.

Zuko holds out his left hand. Azula snags it and studies the ring critically for a long time, tilting it back and forth in the light.

"It's no five-carat Burmese ruby, but I suppose it suits you."

"Thank you, I think."

Azula glares at him. "I can't believe you went through with it. Does he have any idea what you're going through?"

"You and Suki really would make quite the pair," Zuko says.

Her voice goes high, defensive. "I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind." Zuko spreads his fingers to admire his ring. The wide, silly smile that spreads across his face makes Azula sigh.

"You could do worse," she says—probably the closest she'll get to expressing her approval, short of inevitably shedding a grudging tear or two at the wedding. She pulls her hair out of its high bun and heads into the kitchen, pulling ingredients out of the pantry and setting a notecard-sized hinged box on the counter. It looks familiar, but Zuko can't quite place it.

"What's that?"

Azula hesitates. "It's Mother's recipes," she says. "I went to her house for tea this morning. Remember the lemon chiffon cake she used to make?"

Zuko nods. "She would never tell us the secret ingredient." He sighs. "Don't tell me it was love."

"It was vegetable oil."

Zuko laughs.

For the first time in ages, Azula looks truly content, and Zuko feels it. He never would've recognized himself from a month ago; that lonely, angry, abused man who knew nothing about why joy had never happened for him. Now he has Sokka, his answers, and a ring on his finger. This is not the safest Zuko has ever been, nor the most stable, but it is perhaps the strongest, the happiest—even over the memory of their first engagement, since tinged with portent and bittersweetness.

_We make our own memories from now on. He won't ruin this for us again._

Sokka reenters the room, drops into a charging stance, then leans forward and scoops Zuko over one shoulder, spinning him around in circles and roaring. Zuko laughs, smacking at his ass until he lowers him back to his feet. Sokka kisses him sloppily. He's just reaching up Zuko's shirt when he spots Azula there in the kitchen, jumps visibly, and salutes her with one hand.

"Hello!" he shouts.

"Hello," Azula says evenly.

"How has your day been so far?"

"Unobjectionable. And yours?"

Sokka doesn't try to repress his smile. "Extraordinary," he says, staring directly into Zuko's eyes.

Azula sighs. "Come here," she says, tapping the counter. "I suppose I can let you in on a little family cake recipe now."

His jaw drops, and he bounds into the kitchen and plucks Azula off her feet, hugging fiercely. Azula, who could've broken all of Sokka's fingers and toes in two moves, allows the embrace for a few seconds, glaring over his shoulder at Zuko as he swings her back and forth. "Put me down or I'll put you down," she says, when he leans in to kiss her.

"Okay, sis." He returns her to the tile.

"Have you told Katara?"

He pauses, and so does Zuko. "No," Zuko says slowly. "Katara doesn't know anything."

Not about the courtroom. Not about Zuko and his father, and certainly not about Sokka and his father. But if anyone deserves to be in the loop, it's Katara.

Just the thought of telling her makes him feel ill. He fears her sorrow, yes—knowing what happened to them is going to destroy her—but he fears her fury more. Her sense of justice is absolute. Sokka and Aang can curse against his father as many times as they want, but Katara's still more likely to find a way to actually kill him. It's almost funny in a way, imagining kind, lovely Katara cutting in the growing line of people who want to harm Ozai Sozin. She'd get a job at the prison and poison him to death. She'd fire forty shots into his retreating back.

"Wow, that's a conversation I'm really looking forward to," says Sokka, voice paper-thin.

"Yeah," says Zuko, "but she needs to hear it from us."

"Why 'us?'" says Azula shrewdly.

 _Fuck_. Zuko grows cold at his slip-up. He looks at Sokka, opening his mouth to play it off, but Sokka's eyes are resigned and out of tears. The two of them stare at each other for a tired moment. Then Sokka shrugs and says simply, "Learned today that Zuko and I have your father in common."

Azula is quiet for a long time. She lowers her head, hair slipping down over her face, and Zuko reaches out without thinking and strokes it back behind her ear. She touches his shoulder in response, and, after a beat of hesitation, takes Sokka's hand in her free one.

"Sokka," she says, voice shaking. "I—I'm so sorry that he—"

"Don't apologize for him, 'Zula" says Sokka. "You didn't choose to be related to the piece of shit."

She nods. There are tears gathering under her lashes. She blinks them away furiously. "I'll have the company within the year," she swears. "I don't know if I have grounds to sue him for breaching his fiduciary duty yet, because I was only a partner in practice, but I'll find some way to take him for all that he's worth. His career is over. I'm dragging him to court for assault and battery."

"Azula, are you sure?" asks Zuko.

"What do you mean, am I sure? Of course I am. Surely you don't believe I lack either the evidence or the spite."

"It's just such a long, traumatic process—"

"Zuzu, you don't have to go through it yourself. You've already been so courageous. I'll take care of this."

Zuko takes a deep breath. Suddenly he's trembling. Just the thought of being on the stand again, fighting to get the words out, sitting in the same room as his father—it's fucking _terrifying._

But not as terrifying as the idea of him getting away with what he did to Sokka.

"I'll do it," he promises. "We'll merge our claims into one lawsuit. He's not walking away from this."

Sokka grins, tight and frightened. "And baby makes three, I guess."

Zuko turns to him, shocked. "You'll join us?"

"Yep," Sokka says shortly.

He wants to pursue the line of thought, the reasoning and bravery behind it, but Sokka's posture is completely closed-off. He doesn't want to talk about it. Zuko smiles instead, leaning in to kiss him, and holds there until Sokka's slack lips press softly back against his. When he draws away, Sokka smiles back at him, this time with tentative hope.

"Things are looking up," he says. "Lawsuit pending, wedding in twelve days, and Azula's about to make us a delicious cake."

"You're making your own goddamn cake," says Azula. "I'm supervising to make sure you don't incinerate the entire country."

"Rude."

"I haven't forgotten the toaster incidents, plural."

The two of them bicker as they assemble the ingredients, standing unnecessarily close together, jostling each other's shoulders for places at the countertop. Zuko just stands there, watching them. His heart feels so clean and full that he thinks it might burst.

_My family._

*

 **Zuko:** I'll do it.  
**June Nyla:** Thank you for your fortitude, Mr. Sozin. Make an appointment with my secretary, and we'll begin building your case.  
**Zuko:** My sister and fiancé will be joining me.  
**June Nyla:** The more the merrier.

 **Aang:** loaf sighting!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
**Aang:** (image attached)  
**Aang:** (image attached)  
**Aang:** (image attached)  
**Aang:** (image attached)  
**Zuko:** Jesus Aang  
**Aang:** (image attached)

 **Uncle:** Chai to get some rest.  
**Zuko:** Not one of your better ones.  
**Uncle:** I recommend a Sheng pu-erh for your irritabili-tea.  
**Uncle:** Thinking of you.

 **Katara:** We need to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am inexcusably behind on review replies now, and am so sorry about that. I'll be working through them right after I post this. Thank you so much for all of the support. I haven't tackled a project this lengthy in years, and look forward to this one's completion in however-many chapters (I think I was a little hasty in trying to guess at its length (that's what she said)). Hope everyone is doing well. Happy January.

He reads Sokka the text as they sit in bed together, each with one earbud, listening to Sokka's marching arrangement of Holst's 'Jupiter.' "Yeah, she messaged me too," says Sokka, eyes still shut. His fingers flutter to the beat of the woodwinds.

Zuko waits. "And?"

"And I'm ignoring her," says Sokka. "I thought that much was obvious."

His crankiness would be endearing if Zuko weren't so intent on having this conversation. He pauses the music, presses a long kiss to Sokka's pouting mouth, and lingers there with one hand on his cheek. "We both know that Katara deserves better than that," he says.

Sokka crosses his arms and adopts a bright, cheery tone: "'Hey, sis! Want a detailed account of the sickening abuse Zuko endured at the hands of his own father for ten fucking years? No? How about a recap of the time the old fuck put his wife's lipstick on me and made me suck him off?' Got a dozen anecdotes like that that'd make great conversation starters. I could even incorporate some of them into my wedding speech, if you want me to."

"Please. Sokka."

Zuko's voice cracks a little, and that seems to snap him out of it. He sets his laptop aside and pulls Zuko close, fetching up against him; a soft, vulnerable curl.

"I'm sorry, baby. I just—I don't know how to cope. Don't _want_ to cope. Just want you to hold me."

Zuko complies, kissing Sokka again and rolling him over into his lap. Sokka hums and lays his head on Zuko's chest. His eyes close. "I can hear your heartbeat," he says. "It's so fast."

"I still can't believe you're here," says Zuko. "I have trouble breathing around you."

Sokka kisses his neck right below the shelf of his jaw, nipping lightly. "Katara doesn't know we're engaged," he says. "Let's try to lead with that news when we talk to her, okay? Instead of the 'serial rapist father' angle?"

"She might be angry about the engagement, too. Azula wasn't quite pleased."

"Neither was Suki."

They're quiet for a moment, contemplatively touching fingertips. Then Zuko blurts, "So I'd like to set Suki and Azula up on a—" just as Sokka opens with, "Azula and Sukes would make a really, _really_ cute—" and the two of them break off and laugh together for a long time. Zuko recovers first and says, "I can tell that Azula likes her because she hasn't stopped wearing the lipgloss she gave her the other day."

"Suki's been pretty vocal about wanting to fistfight Azula sometime, which is pretty much Suki-speak for 'please sit on my face.'"

"Ew," Zuko whines.

"Oh, don't be a baby. Azula's been gracefully living with the knowledge that we're potentially fucking on every surface in her shared apartment."

"We're not, though," says Zuko. "Fucking, I mean."

Sokka pauses. "No. We're not."

It hangs there for a long time, unspoken, before Zuko says, "Did you—want to be?"

"Uh," says Sokka.

Zuko can feel his heartbeat too, accelerating in time with his own. He has absolutely no idea what Sokka's going to say, and he has no idea what he wants to hear.

At least up until Sokka says, "Zuko, it shouldn't come as any surprise that I'm mad hot for you pretty much twenty-four-seven, but there's a lot going on right now, and if we can't be intimate without it feeling unsafe for one of us—even just a little—then that's enough reason to wait. Not for forever. Just—until we're both less bruised. Is that okay?"

Relief washes over Zuko in great waves. He combs his fingers through the tendrils of Sokka's hair that've escaped his ponytail, tucking them behind his ear. Today he's wearing a tiny ring, two plain studs, and one shaped like a crescent moon. "I like that, Sokka. I like that you said that for me, and for yourself."

Sokka chuckles, nervous. A small tremor goes through him when he says, "I mean, if you really wanted to, I'd—"

"No, don't take it back. Respect yourself more."

"It's complicated," says Sokka.

"I know."

"You have to take care of yourself too, then. Promise me."

"I will," says Zuko, and immediately feels out of his depth. Is that really something he can swear to? If Sokka asked him to have sex right this instant, he would probably capitulate without hesitation, regardless of his own reservations and traumas. But he supposes the point is that Sokka _wouldn't_ ask that of him. _Until we're less bruised._ Zuko appreciates that. Appreciates that he didn't say 'broken.'

"Kissing, however," Sokka ventures, tentative, and that's all Zuko needs to grin, hurl Sokka onto his back on the bed, and straddle him. Sokka beams back at him. "Ooh!" he says, blushing.

"Ooh," Zuko agrees, lowering his mouth to Sokka's.

They've been making out for nearly forty minutes when Sokka's phone rings.

"Ah, fuck, that's her; I just know it's her," Sokka mumbles, sitting up. His lips are swollen and his hair is a mess, and he unthinkingly tries to put himself in order before he answers the call, tugging the wrinkles out of his shirt. Zuko rolls over onto one elbow and places one hand on Sokka's stomach in silent support. Sokka grabs it and holds on tight. "Hello?"

Zuko can just hear the murmur of a voice. Katara, yes, but her tone is completely different from what he was expecting—no anger in it at all. Tearful, almost. His heart throbs painfully in his chest.

"Katara, I'm so sorry," says Sokka. "There's just been a lot going on, and—yeah. Yeah, of course. Today?" He's cringing. "Sure. Do you need anything on the way? Food, groceries?"

Trying to stall. Zuko knows it, so he knows Katara does, too.

"Okay," says Sokka. "Four o'clock."

That's in half an hour; barely enough time to make it across town. Zuko stares at the ceiling bleakly. He shouldn't be surprised that Katara is done fucking around, but—he realizes, confused—Aang will still be on shift. That's strange. Is she purposely excluding him from this get-together? What could she have to discuss that she can't say in front of him?

"Love you too," Sokka says, and hangs up, groaning.

"We'd better get ready," Zuko says.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't bear to put it off. She sounded really—bad."

"Yeah, I heard a little. Well, there's nothing we can do now. You should, um, change clothes and fix your hair and stuff. You look super debauched."

"So do you," says Sokka, voice taking on a sly note. "Wow, your mouth is so red."

"So's yours," Zuko shoots back, defensive.

"It's a good look on you."

"Shut up." He stands up and checks his reflection: yeah, even fully clothed, he looks pretty indecent. He begins stroking his hair back into place. Pauses when the ring on his finger catches the light. He stares at it uncertainly for long enough that Sokka slips up behind him to see what he's doing, twining his arms around Zuko's waist.

"Oh," he says, subdued. "Hmm."

"It might be a lot for Katara to take in at once," says Zuko, "but I really don't want to take it off. Now or ever again."

"It's up to you," says Sokka. "I won't be offended either way."

Zuko hesitates. Then he turns in Sokka's arms, places his own carefully around his still-tender neck, and gives him a long, light kiss. "I'm keeping it on," he says.

Sokka smiles against his mouth. "Okay," he whispers.

They get cleaned up, Zuko in a nondescript black shirt, Sokka in a dark green Polo. He pops the collar to hide the scratch marks ("You look like a douche." "Thanks, sweetheart"), then exit the room and search the kitchen for something to take to Katara's. The remains of the cake they made yesterday seems suitable. Zuko sets a few slices aside for Azula and transports the rest of it in a plastic container, trying to play into the domesticity to calm his nerves: just visiting his sister-in-law for a nice chat. Nothing grim or ill-fated about it.

They exit through the garage, taking Zuko's Audi. When he drives around the street-facing side of the building, his body grows cold.

The front entrance is swarming with reporters. 

"Shit," he whispers. He fumbles his sunglasses on and guns it down the road just as the first camera swivels toward him, pulling the visor down on Sokka's side to hide his face.

"Those all for you? Damn," Sokka says.

"Or Azula, but I'm not risking it. I don't think our publicists have given the media a whole lot to work with yet. Gotta keep it that way until they make their move." He's been purposely avoiding his news feeds, and regrets that now, wishing he knew more about the type of information that has made it through the city's journalistic circuits. He can guess at the approach they'll take with the mistrial and his mother's involvement. Something about the dysfunctionality of the Sozin family, picking at his father's culpability and Azula's mental health and their mother's departure.

But Zuko's—what? History? Sexuality? What do they know? Sokka flinches, and Zuko realizes that he's digging his fingers protectively into his shoulder. He lets go quickly, returning his hand to the wheel. "I'm sorry!"

"No, _I'm_ sorry," says Sokka.

"For what?"

Sokka sinks down miserably in his seat. "For being—I don't know. Another thing you have to worry about."

"Sokka, I wouldn't trade the opportunity to care about you for anything in the fucking world," Zuko says, fiercely enough that his throat tightens. He keeps his eyes on the road, but in his peripheral vision, Sokka turns and smiles softly at him, radiant with affection. _You're beautiful_ , Zuko thinks. _You're the best thing in my world._

The drive to Aang and Katara's passes by too quickly. Sokka puts on some music from his phone, but they only have the chance to listen to two of his Bizet adaptations before Zuko pulls up in the small visitor lot of the apartment complex. They live in a poorer part of town, and not just by Zuko's standards—most of their neighbors are on welfare, and Aang and Katara supplement them with fresh produce and sale items from Aang's second job at the grocery store. They get by with kindness and elegance, and Zuko thinks often about how they have more character, class, and generosity of spirit in their pinkie fingers than most people have in their entire bodies.

He deeply admires his friends. He only wishes they weren't too proud to accept more financial assistance from him. He is going to find a way to gift them at least a modest townhome if it's the last thing he does: if he had his way, they'd have their own condo, a private pool, and several vacation homes across the world. They're not yacht-and-haute-couture kind of people, but they deserve more luxuries than they can afford.

A working doorbell, for one. Zuko presses it and presses it to no avail until Sokka leans past him and raps lightly on the jamb, saying, "Let's do this the old-fashioned way."

Zuko blushes. Katara answers almost immediately, drying her hands on a dish towel.

"Guys, hi," she says, sounding very tired.

"Heya, gorgeous," says Sokka, wrapping her in a tight hug. When he pulls back, she catches sight of his collar and tucks it right back down. So much for that.

"What happened to your neck?" Katara demands. "Are you scratching again?"

Again? Zuko looks at Sokka, who waves his hands in front of him. "No! Well, just the once."

Her voice wobbles. "Are you okay?"

"I'm great, Katara. Seriously. Greater than great."

"I'm glad," she says. "Sokka, Zuko, I—why are we standing here? Come in, please."

They step inside and sit down at Aang and Katara's rickety card table. Returned RSVPs and small party favors are stacked on the counter. Lavender gowns are draped on every surface. Zuko frowns. They're still hoarding some of the wedding responsibilities, even though they said they'd pass them all along to Zuko and Sokka. Zuko's just winding up for a lecture when Katara sighs.

"Later, okay?" she asks.

"Okay," says Zuko reluctantly.

She has tea prepared for them, which she pours into mismatched mugs, the smell hot and herbal and comforting. Her hands shake. She tries for a smile.

Zuko starts feeling sick. Something is terribly wrong, and Katara is trying to soften the blow. He holds his own hands under the table, twisting his ring between his thumb and forefinger. Now is not the time to announce their engagement. He wants badly to leave, but he feels glued in place.

Sokka hasn't reached for his cup, either. He catches Katara's wrist gently and she leans in to offer them sugar. "Katara, hey," he says quietly. "Just talk."

Katara fumbles the spoon. Sugar speckles the tabletop. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, steadying her breathing, then swallows and nods. Her wedding planner is sitting on the shelf behind her. She picks it up and opens it, removing a thick stack of magazines and papers. Zuko's heart sinks into the hollow pit of his stomach as she drops the first one in front of him.

 _KEEPING IT WITHIN THE FAMILY: SOZIN HEIR'S INCEST ALLEGATIONS,_ reads the headline.

He picks up the tabloid with trembling fingers. There's a full-page picture of him and his father standing side by side at a charity event last winter, both of them in suits, leaning conspiratorially close to discuss something. The angle makes the conversation look—intimate. Romantic, even. His father is holding a half-empty flute of champagne, and his mouth is close to Zuko's ear, eyes half-lidded in mid-blink.

Do they look like that in public? Like a fucking _couple?_ Zuko feels like he's going to throw up.

Katara places a new magazine atop it. _"WE WERE HAVING SEX."_ A blurry, old picture of Zuko wearing sunglasses in profile, sneaking a cigarette behind a restaurant. In smaller letters: _Tortured Son's Tearful Confession in Capital County Courtroom._

Next newsletter. _RICH WITH SORDID HISTORY._ Zuko in his junior year's marching band uniform, posing for the high school paper, eyes distant.

Next. _OUT AND ABOUT: SOZIN SCION'S MYSTERY MAN_. Paparazzi shot of Zuko and Sokka leaving the Jasmine Dragon the day of the impromptu dance party, Sokka bright and messy and unsteady from the Cactus Juices, arm draped tight around Zuko's shoulders.

Next. _LOVE AMONG THE LEAVES._ Candid of Zuko and Aang at the Butterfly Pavilion. Aang's arms around his neck, foreheads almost touching. Jet and company carefully cropped out. And the caption. _Does Daddy Know?_

There are even more, but Zuko can't look at them. He pushes the stack away, upsetting one of the mugs and splashing tea across the table. No one makes a move to clean it up. Katara sits down heavily, hand on Zuko's bicep, and Sokka covers his eyes, trying to stifle the soft, choked sounds that are slipping out of him. Zuko never thought he could be more humiliated than he was that day in court, but this is _Katara,_ the most graceful person he has ever known. And he's just been stripped bare and thrown at her fucking feet.

"It's true, isn't it," she says, crying now. "Your father hurts you, and you testified against him."

This is simultaneously a much easier and much harder way for her to find out about this. Easier because it gave him a way to break the ice. Harder because of everything else. Zuko stares at the floor. His voice is so small when he finally gathers the words. "Katara, I couldn't tell you at first because—because I—"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me. Oh, Zuko."

She pulls him toward her and kisses his nose, his temple, his hair. She smells so, so good. Like lavender and pear blossoms and the ocean. Zuko presses into her embrace and lets himself be held and rocked, so numb that his eyes are barely watering. Her hands massage his back. Her touch is firmer than Sokka's.

 _Sokka,_ thinks Zuko.

Under the table, Sokka takes his left hand.

"Katara," Sokka says, voice badly shaking, "there's kind of something I need to tell you, too."

Katara turns to look at him, her hair tickling Zuko's cheeks. This close, Zuko can feel her body go rigid. "What is it, Sokka?"

Sokka laughs; his nervous reaction. It's reedy and hysterical-sounding. He takes a moment to calm down, trying to deepen his breaths. Finally, he says, "The night I left Aunt Wu's. The night I went to live with you and Dad. That—that was—"

She pulls back from Zuko and waits. A terrible suspicion shadows her beautiful features.

"I'm so ashamed," says Sokka, tearing up.

"Sokka," says Katara, seizing his shoulder, "the last time I heard you say that, we were in the hospital together after Mongke attacked you, and there was no reason for you to feel ashamed. He hurt you. The shame was _his_. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Sokka nods.

"And you understand that nothing you can say now will make me think less of you."

He nods again. He blinks a few tears free and catches them fast with his arm. Without looking at her or Zuko, he says, "Ozai would always try to—to reward me after he fucked me. With little sweets or flowers or trinkets. I only accepted one. It was a diamond watch. I gave it to the attendant at the bus station in exchange for a ticket. It was that, or give up this."

He picks Zuko's hand up and places it on the table so Katara can see the engagement ring. She stares at it for a long time. Tears slip freely down her face. Then she smiles, beautiful, but brief and twisted, and she clasps one of Zuko's hands in her own and Sokka's in the other. "Congratulations," she says. "I am so happy you two found each other again."

"Thanks," says Zuko, voice low. "Katara—"

The only warning is a minute tightening of her fingers. Then suddenly she's standing up and tearing at the magazines, hurling aside their pieces, throwing one cup and then the other at the kitchen wall. They shatter like tiny bombs. Porcelain dust and tea everywhere. She drops to the floor, hands clamped over her mouth to stifle her sobs, not a single sound escaping her as her shoulders heave. Sokka joins her on the tile. She fumbles for him, and he pulls her close, the two of them clutching at each other.

God, they look so beautiful in that moment, so very alike. Sokka's fingers tangle in her long, wavy hair, and Katara's thumb touches the old wound on his cheek. Zuko gets a sense of years of terrible history coming clean, of the last wall separating them finally crumbling. Maybe now it's time to start healing.

In the meantime, though, Katara's anger is huge and hot and tidal. She strikes the base of the countertop hard with one fist, then again, and again, leaving dark smears of blood from her scraped knuckles. Zuko seizes her elbow to stop her, and her hands flex and close furiously, nails digging into her palms. She lets out a single sharp, harrowing cry. Her hair covers her face as she stoops over, gasping. Zuko holds onto her until she wears herself out, shaking and panting and finally stilling, then releases her so she can fling herself back into Sokka's arms. Sokka clings back so hard his hands quiver. Her embrace looks murderously tight.

"Where?" she asks.

"Where what?" Sokka says. He winces. "Katara, ow—"

She loosens her grip by only a fraction. "Where are they keeping Ozai? Aang told me there was a mistrial."

"He's back at the Boiling Rock," says Zuko. "The other judge thought he was too much of a flight risk and had him remanded. And the police found—additional character evidence in a lockbox owned by Zhao."

"What evidence?" asks Sokka.

He hasn't heard this yet; Zuko had forgotten in the whirlwind of their engagement. Had _wanted_ to forget, really. He swallows hard. A strange, nervous smile touches his lips. "Video of me and Father at the office _in flagrante delicto_."

"I don't know what that means," Sokka says.

"It's Latin for 'holding a knitting circle,'" Zuko jokes, but his humiliated tone is enough context for Sokka and Katara to catch on. Katara seizes his arm in her vice-like grip.

"That son of a bitch had proof that your father was assaulting you, and he used it for blackmail instead of turning it to the police?" she says, voice hollow with disbelief.

"A real upstanding fellow," says Zuko.

"There's video?" says Sokka. It comes out in a whisper. "Oh god, Zuko. I—I can't imagine how you feel about that."

He shrugs, tries for casualness. "It's actually bulletproof evidence, now that we're taking him to court."

"You're pressing charges against your father?" asks Katara.

"Sokka, Azula, and I are, yes."

"That's so brave of you," she says. Something in her voice sounds distant, though. Bitter.

Zuko touches her hair. "What's wrong?"

Her beautiful eyes blaze. She scoffs at herself. "If I trusted in our justice system, it should be enough, knowing that he'll go to jail and serve time for what he did to you. But it's not. He raped you, Zuko. He raped my brother. He should be _eviscerated._ And if you two aren't ready to do that yet—if it's still too complicated for you, or too painful, or too recent—then I will gladly do it myself. Just say the word."

Her promise is more focused than Aang's threats were in the courtroom, or Sokka's were yesterday. She fucking means it: if she had the chance to kill Zuko's father, then she would take it without hesitation.

Cold trickles down Zuko's spine. He tries to laugh. "I hope your services won't be necessary," he says.

"Bastard's just lucky he's got the Boiling Rock to protect him from Katara," says Sokka.

"If I see him on the street, though," swears Katara, and doesn't need to elaborate. Her expression, sharp with pain and power and fury, says it all.

They clean up the kitchen together, mopping up the tea and sweeping the broken cups into dustpans. Katara's fist left dents in the plaster of the countertop. Sokka gently wipes her knuckles down with disinfectant as Zuko throws away the newspapers and brews more tea, blowing the sting away before he bandages them. She touches the scratches on his neck, too, her simple touch more healing than any aloe. Zuko tries not to breach the siblings' privacy, but they are something to watch; so beautiful, loving, and transparent.

Afterward, they work on RSVPs. Neither Zuko nor Sokka thought to bring their own laptops with them, so they use Katara's little ten-inch computer and finalize some of the wedding plans. Zuko gets good news: Aang's favorite local band, the Flameos, have agreed to play during the reception as a surprise.

"I thought the Flameos were a cereal," says Sokka.

"Nope, they are very definitely a flute, strings, and percussion sextet that are likely a blast to dance to barefoot," says Zuko. "You want to listen to them?"

Sokka hesitates. "Actually, I was wondering if I could write an email to Suki. I still need to get her up to speed with all the. You know. Terrible news. Before she has to hear it from some tabloid, like Katara did."

"I think that's a good idea," says Zuko, after a pause.

"You do? Do I have your permission to tell her about some of the—the rough stuff? Yours, mine, and ours?"

The idea of someone else knowing makes him feel sick, but the news is already out, isn't it? Might even carry more weight than usual, given its disreputable sources. Zuko's head grows light imagining Katara catching sight of the headlines during her morning shopping. She deserved better than that, and so does Suki. "I trust you to say what you think she needs to hear," says Zuko honestly.

"Okay, you do that, Sokka," says Katara, pulling her sewing into her lap. "I'll finish the dresses."

"What can I do?" says Zuko.

"Just sit there and look pretty," she says fondly.

Zuko wince-laughs. "Yeah, no. Seriously. I should be helping with something."

Aang takes that moment to arrive home with groceries and Appa ("They let you take him to work?") and he helps Zuko prepare a delicious dinner of lentil-stuffed-eggplant and sauteed vegetables. As Zuko clumsily slices peppers into the pan, he catches Aang up on the news of his engagement, Sokka's history with his father, and their intentions to press charges with Azula. Aang has quiet tears in the back corner of the kitchen, shying out of Katara and Sokka's field of vision.

"I can't believe one man has the power to do so much damage," he says, sniffling into a tea towel. "But I guess that also means that a person's capacity for goodness is even more substantial than I thought, because love is stronger than hatred."

Zuko wants to argue with that—it's a little rudimentary and optimistic, even for Aang—but when he looks in his best friend's eyes, he sees that there's nothing empty in the philosophy, nothing ignorant: Aang, too, understands evil. Has probably seen more of it than he'll ever admit to, than Zuko will ever know. And he has still chosen kindness.

"You're right," says Zuko. He smiles, aware of Aang's hand on his back, and Sokka's ring on his finger. "Love is going to win this one."

*

_Dearest Suki. Sukes. Sukerton. Sukissimo._

_I didn't tell you the whole truth yesterday. I did ask Zuko to marry me, and he did say yes, but we had a conversation beforehand that we both think you should hear about._

_You know his father's an Unprecedented Piece of Shit, right? Well, it turns out that sexual assault is on UPoS's very, very long list of infractions, and Zuko (for ten years) and I (for one month) have both had encounters with him. (It took me half an hour to type that word, "encounters." And it's still not right. Not big or violent or scary enough to describe what happened to us, maybe. But it's the most I can say, because I don't want to sound melodramatic. I'm finally controlling the narrative, and I want to come out looking as courageous as possible! Am I brave for telling you, Suki? Or am I a chickenshit for everything else?)_

_Fuck, it's going to be hard to face you again._

_I'm sorry I'm writing this to you instead of telling you aloud, but I bet you'll forgive me. You were always good about that. Listening to me and thanking me for my disclosures, even when I was typing them or weeping them or yelling them at you drunk. And I think this email will explain some of myself, like the nightmares, and the hatred of silk. Teeny traumas that form the Big Me that you've come to love, despite all the fucked up little pieces._

_Zuko does this thing after he receives an "I love you" where his eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly, as if in disbelief. Like he didn't know he was worth the love. I don't know if that'll ever go away, but I intend to tell him as many times as he needs to hear it in order to believe me. You taught me that persistence._

_What I mean is: thank you for loving me, and making me know that you love me, even when I didn't want to._

_You're the best.  
<3 Sokka_

_P.S. Azula has a sweet tooth, and she's never had homemade daifuku. She's also taking tomorrow off, if you wanted to pop up in that 'I Licked It So It's Mine' crop top of yours. You bring the burritos, I'll bring the movies, and we'll both bring the gross sobbing. Love you, babe. Life goes on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/). I love interacting with everyone there, though the chat client is a little glitchy. Have a splendid day, all.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gosh, happy Chapter Twenty! Sorry this took so long! Warnings for mentions of past rape and physical violence. This one is heavy in its discussion of survivors of multiple acts of violence.
> 
> What would you all say to a sort of interlude chapter comprised of short pieces from various other characters' POVs? Too much of a violation of perspective? Either way, who would you like to hear more about, now that this story is wrapping up? What questions haven't I answered? Have I made this exact author's note before? I feel like I have.
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy this bit, and have a wonderful day. Thank you so, so much for your support, even as I continue to get more and more behind in review replies.

As Mai assured him, the first reputable news outlet to update the public about the Sozin case makes no mention of Zuko's assault allegations—The Daily's Sun's journalistic ethics prevent such privacy violations—but the tabloids have done their damage: everyone in Zuko's extended circle of friends now knows what he claimed in court, and because they trust him, they also know that it is true. There is no point in pretending they haven't heard, so they don't. They reach out. And Zuko loves them for that.

 **Unknown sender** : It's Toph. We're not super close, so you don't know that I've got a pen pal at the Boiling Rock named The Boulder whose crew doesn't take kindly to Charlie Chesters. Just give me a sign. In the meantime, tell that uber-bitch Suki that I know she stole the rest of the red bean paste, and she better save me some daifuku. Holla.

 **Unknown sender** : Hi, Zuko! It's Yue. Wishing you a lovely afternoon. 💙🌙

 **Teo** : Hmu if you want to catch dinner sometime. It was great seeing you the other day!

 **Jet** : Hey, Fire Lord. I hate that I found out this way, that it wasn't in your control, and I wish I could take it back and let you tell me or not tell me yourself. I can't apologize enough for that. But I wanted to let you know that I've got your back, and that I have a friend named Longshot who practices brilliant trauma-focused therapy with Treetop Psych Care. He's helped me talk through a lot of shit. If you need a listening ear, I can put you in touch. In the meantime, take care of yourself. You're not alone.

"What kind of name is Longshot?" asks Sokka, reading over Zuko's shoulder.

Zuko clutches his phone to his chest. "A little privacy? You're supposed to be massaging me."

"Ooh, I like it when you're bossy. Sorry for the nosiness." Sokka resumes rubbing his thumbs into the hard spots along Zuko's spine, hands strong and intimate. "So do you think you'll give him a call?"

"Maybe," says Zuko. "Jet has—well, he's been through one hell of a lot. If he vouches for this guy, I trust him." He's quiet for a moment, just enjoying Sokka's deft fingers working out knots in his back. He doesn't want to ruin it, this rare, peaceful time, but he has to ask: "If I did get in touch with a therapist, do you think you would want to come with me? I mean, as a fellow patient?"

Sokka stills abruptly. "Why me?" he snaps.

Zuko frowns and chews his lower lip. He can't combat Sokka's denial; doesn't know how to handle it without getting prickly himself. His shoulders tense up again. Sokka feels it, too, and allows him a small concession.

"I'm sorry, but this isn't about me, you know? You're the one whose life just got splashed across the headlines."

"I'm not just talking about what's happening with the paparazzi."

"I don't need—it's not the same! You were abused for years, Zuko. Fucking _years._ "

"So what happened to you, what, doesn't 'count?'"

"We shared an aggressor, that's all," says Sokka. "The nature of the abuse was completely different."

He's not right, and he's not wrong, and Zuko has no idea how to articulate this for Sokka when he can't even describe what happened to himself. And Sokka is being purposely obtuse as a defense mechanism. It's so fucking frustrating. Zuko pushes Sokka away and crosses his arms, inching away on the couch. He knows it's a childish gesture, but he can't help it.

"Hey. Hey, don't make me kiss you," says Sokka, nudging him.

"Sokka, seriously—"

"The pouty face has got to go."

He inches forward and begins laying little pecks on Zuko's jaw and neck, and Zuko smiles despite himself, halfheartedly pushing him away. Sokka pursues him, making wet smacking noises. When he finally captures Zuko's mouth, he gives him a shameless, tongue-filled kiss, pushing him onto the couch and straddling him. "Wanna kiss more than your face," he says huskily. "Wanna rip off your clothes and—"

"Are you kidding me?" Azula snaps from the nearby armchair, disgusted, where she's been sitting the entire time so unobtrusively that they forgot about her entirely. They separate fast, Zuko bright red, Sokka falling backwards off the couch, laughing.

The doorbell rings. Azula snaps her book shut and slaps it down on the coffee table, grumbling about 'rules against kissing in front of one's siblings' as she goes to answer the door.

The minute she opens it, Suki steps forward, catches Azula's face gently in both hands, and kisses her delicately on the lips.

Azula's arms rise halfway, then freeze in place. Suki pulls back just a few inches and studies her with damp eyes. She's smiling a sad, conflicted smile. "People are good," she says, as if convincing herself of something. "People are good, and I am blessed." Her cheeks are red from abrasion, pretty mouth bare. She kisses Azula again, just as light, then lets her go and closes the front door. She waves at Zuko, then Sokka, who is still lying on the floor.

"Suki," says Sokka, subdued but fond.

"Hey, boys," she says. "I made daifuku and monaka."

"Aw, hell yeah!" Sokka scrambles to his feet and rushes her, attempting to sweep her into a hug. Suki turns the tables on him with a well-timed sidestep and ends up with him crushed in both her strong arms from behind. She kisses his ear, making him squirm, then lingers there for a moment, just holding him and breathing him in.

She read the email. Sokka showed it to Zuko before he sent it, so he knows what it said, what it didn't say. What Suki has had to infer herself, like Sokka's unwillingness to discuss it in person just yet—even to Zuko. She doesn't push. Instead, she lets him go, pulls the strap of her battered messenger bag over her head, and snags one of Azula's hands to guide her to the kitchen. "You're in for a treat, Queen Azula," she tells her.

Azula finally finds her voice. Her fingers are at her lips. "'Queen?'"

"Well, Princess Azula' and 'Lady Azula' don't feel adequate."

"Does that make me King Zuko?" Zuko asks.

"No, Firelord. You've got to earn it." She smiles at him; the type of smile only Suki can manage, bright and knowing and individualized. Zuko feels acknowledged in that moment. Cherished, even. Then she reaches into her bag and begins pulling out containers full of sweets and burritos.

"How are the stalkerazzi down there?" asks Sokka.

"Inexhaustible. Like ugly little vultures with cameras. I thought about wearing my work uniform to sneak past them, but I just looked too damn good in this outfit."

She's wearing a green striped button-up tied at the midriff, cutoff shorts, and chunky brown work loafers. "Agreed," say Zuko and Azula at the same time. Zuko eyes her; Azula blushes and busies herself unpackaging the food. He knows that she's probably agonizing over the meaning of the kisses, and hopes that Suki puts her out of her misery soon. He's trying to think up an excuse to leave them alone for a moment when Sokka's phone begins ringing.

Sokka stares at the screen for a long time. "It's my dad," he says, swallowing hard. "Wow. I haven't—it didn't occur to me to—"

"Do you want to go somewhere?" Zuko asks, touching his elbow.

Sokka nods. He lets it ring through as he hesitates toward the patio, then changes his mind and heads to the bedroom instead, pulling Zuko along. Zuko shuts the door behind them. Sokka paces with his hands on his hips and bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, hyping himself up in front of the mirror. "I thought I was done having this conversation with people," he says to his reflection. "Every time I think it's over, I remember someone else who should probably know. But it's a luxury being able to pick who to talk to. You didn't really get that choice."

"That doesn't make this an enviable task, Sokka. Focus on yourself. Where would you like me to be?"

He hesitates. "I want you here, but could you—try not to listen to every word? Put on headphones or something?"

Zuko glances at the ensuite bathroom. "Actually, I have a few phone calls to make myself."

Sokka smiles a little. "From your shower-phone?"

"No, not from the shower-phone," Zuko says defensively, slipping his phone out of his back pocket. "A normal phone call like a normal person—"

"—from the normal toilet?"

"No more stalling. You can do this."

"Yeah," says Sokka, straightening. "Yeah, okay." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Meet back here in an hour?" 

"Break!" Zuko agrees, pressing a kiss to Sokka's tense lips, and closes himself inside the bathroom. It's no home office, but it's better than eavesdropping on either his sister or Sokka's conversations, and he wasn't lying about having to place some calls. He hoists himself onto the spacious counter, thumbs through his contacts, and begins taking care of business.

First he calls Ember Island to update them about the Flameos' need for performance space. Ruon-Jian is still a little grumpy about the whole 'Wang Fire and Sifu Hotman' farce, but Aang and Katara make such a beautiful couple that he has since jumped right back into wedding planning with full vigor. Disabled access and parking have been taken care of, the in-house catering menu is preparing vegan options, and the linens Sokka and Zuko rented from the venue nicely complement the accent colors in the floral centerpieces and biodegradable decorations. This is really happening in ten days. And it's coming together well enough that he can almost start relaxing.

Next, Zuko leaves a formal message with June Nyla about opening up a new case against his father with Azula and Sokka. Her secretary warns him that it'll be a slow and painful process. _So was the abuse_ , Zuko almost replies as a joke, and that's still so new to even think—the very word 'abuse'—that Zuko has to hang up and sit there for a while, just focusing on his breathing. When his hands are steady again, he calls Jet.

"So this friend of yours," he says.

"Hey, Zuko. Yeah, I'll text you his number. He just barely started work in a group practice, but he's been supervised in the field for years now. And if you don't want formal counseling, he's happy to listen as a peer." Jet's normally lively voice is subdued. "Do you want to talk about it with me?"

"N-not yet. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, of course. But I'm here. I wasn't before, but I am now."

"I'm glad we reconnected, Jet."

"So am I. Was afraid we were going to fight it out again at the reception."

"You don't think we would've actually come to blows, do you?"

Jet's tone takes on a note of playful arrogance. "Depends on whether or not you decided to start running your rich boy mouth."

"I kicked your ass back then, and I'd kick your ass now, Jet—"

"Is that how you remember it?"

"—but speaking of being rich, Aang and Katara have always been too proud and too kind to accept my offers to get them into a better home. I don't know if you've been to their place, but it's unbelievably small and run-down, and like—not just by my standards. But I think I've finally thought up a way to get them into a more acceptable living situation that they'll have trouble refusing."

"Do tell."

"Well, my sister—" Zuko begins—but then he gets a strange, gnawing feeling in his stomach, and finds himself staring at the door instead. He's suddenly aware that it's quiet again in his bedroom. Sokka's off the phone now. "Actually, can I call you another time?"

"Sure, no rush," says Jet. "I know you've got a lot going on."

"Thanks, Jet. I mean that, truly."

"Hang in there, Zuko."

Zuko disconnects and hesitates there for a while, staring at his phone until the display blinks off. He listens for any sign that Sokka wants him in there, hand paused on the doorknob. Then he catches sight of his engagement ring, and decides to chance it. He opens the door and kneels down beside Sokka, who is lying on the edge of the bed, silent tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

Such pain in his face. Zuko's heart aches for him. He cups Sokka's cheek, swiping away the moisture with his thumb. Sokka shudders and pulls his hand closer.

"I had to start from the very beginning," says Sokka. "I knew you wanted us to be discreet, so I'd never even told him your real name before. Only Suki knew, really. Can you forgive me for that?"

"You don't have to apologize," says Zuko. "For that, or for anything."

Sokka's lower lip trembles. He bites down on it hard to stop it. Zuko winces; that looks painful. He kisses Sokka's damp cheeks one at a time until Sokka kisses back, snagging him by the collar and dragging him on the bed with him. Zuko holds him, trying to soothe him, but Sokka's shaking doesn't stop as he speaks.

"Dad's a crier. He cried at Katara's preschool graduation, and on my first day of high school, and when Katara won her first swim meet. Fucking lost it when she told him she was getting married. But they've always been good tears, you know? And he didn't cry when I said I was engaged to you, because he didn't know who the hell you even were. He just said, 'Sokka?' like that, really confused and almost hurt, and when I explained a little about how I know you—about why I never mentioned you, and why I moved back, and about your father—"

Sokka gulps back tears. He's so quiet that Zuko wouldn't know he was crying if he weren't looking at him. It's so different from the open, unashamed emotion of Sokka's past expressions that Zuko can feel just how wrong this is, how much pain he's in. He pulls him in tighter.

"He didn't understand at first," says Sokka. "I had to say it like four different ways before he started catching on. Then I could tell he was trying not to let me hear him, but he was crying, and then Bato had to take the phone for him for a bit because Dad couldn't even talk anymore. I made my dad cry. I'm such a piece of shit."

"No," Zuko snaps, seizing Sokka's face until he meets his gaze. "Sokka, none of this is on you."

"If I had been honest with him from the start—"

"When was the start? When you met me? Our fight on our six-month anniversary? The day of the proposal, or the day after, when my father began attacking you? God, Sokka, when did you even have a chance to _breathe?_ You were doing better than your best."

"I keep thinking about that night with Katara in the hospital," says Sokka. "After Mongke hit me, and I told the nurse that I didn't want the rape kit. Probably that would've been the time."

Zuko's arms still. "I—I didn't make the connection th—did Mongke rape you, Sokka?"

"Just that one time, I guess," says Sokka. "It's whatever. We were both really drunk."

"Sokka!" Zuko's voice cracks.

"Please don't get emotional! It wasn't a big deal, especially after your dad. I didn't want to scare Katara."

"He broke your fucking cheekbone!"

"You knew that already. So what, he fucked me too? What does that change? Nothing, because it was all just one colossal mistake in the first place! Why are you making this into a thing?"

Zuko feels like he's losing his mind. "How do you not see how bad that is? If I told you that I rebounded after a rape and was immediately raped _again_ —"

"Can please you stop saying 'rape?'" Sokka snaps.

"How do you want me to say it?" Zuko asks. "I'll use whatever euphemism you want, as long as you consider the possibility that this was not an insignificant assault!"

"Oh, it's _that_ important, huh? I should just go ahead and ring my dad right now with the addendum?" Sokka laughs heartily; Zuko doesn't. Sokka sits up, pushing Zuko away, and goes to stand in front of the dresser to check his hair. "I don't know why you're so intent on giving me a sob story," he says, not looking at him. "You're the one who's been through hell."

"By that logic, don't you think I'd have some expertise?" says Zuko, and he hates that he's playing this card, but he'll do it for Sokka. Will do _anything_ for Sokka. "You cannot acknowledge that I have experienced trauma without admitting that you have, too."

"It's not the same!" Sokka yells.

"It's not different, either!" Zuko shouts back, standing up as well.

They stare each other down for a long moment in the reflection, Sokka's arms crossed, Zuko's hands on his hips. His gaze doesn't waver, even when Sokka's blurs with tears, and his face finally crumples. Zuko follows him across the room and tucks him into a firm, steady embrace from behind. Sokka leans into him, nuzzling their foreheads together. His breath hitches with hiccups as he speaks.

"Your father sent a car to pick me up on nights he wanted me. You'd drive me home, and I'd get in bed, then I'd see the limo at the end of the street. The driver knew I was underage. Aunt Wu knew I was sneaking out. Your doorman and maids saw him pulling me upstairs two, three times a week. But no one _helped_ me."

"Oh, Sokka," Zuko whispers. He kisses Sokka's soft, salty lips. "They failed you."

"I guess that's why I didn't report Mongke," says Sokka. "I didn't want to give Dad or Bato a chance to miss the mark. Katara was the only one who had part of the story, but I swore her to silence, and she respected that. I think she regrets it. If she had any way to find Mongke, she probably would've killed him. And that's without knowing that he forced himself on me, too."

"She loves you. We all do."

Sokka smiles, small and genuine. "I'm loved," he agrees. "I'm lucky."

"You're also kinda fucked up," says Zuko gently, praying it's not the wrong thing to say. His instincts were right: Sokka chuckles and turns around to face him, stroking Zuko's face.

"I'll see this guy with you, if he allows it," says Sokka. "This therapist. But it seems like a long shot."

"Ha ha." Zuko squeezes Sokka closer. "Thank you, Sokka."

"Thank you," says Sokka. "For caring and for—for not pulling your punches, as it were."

Zuko shivers. "I'm not ready for physical violence imagery that involves you, metaphorical or not."

"Sorry, poor phrasing."

They study each other up close like that. Zuko scrapes one finger along the tiny bit of stubble that's gathered at Sokka's chin, and Sokka stares directly into Zuko's eyes, starting to grin at whatever he must see there. It's a reaction of such pure, honest affection that Zuko blushes. Then Sokka pecks him on the lips and glances toward the bathroom.

"Let me just freshen up, and I'll meet you out there with Suki and Azula," he says. "Scope out the sitch for me; report back if they're too 'involved' with each other."

"Why me?" Zuko whines. "I don't want to see my sister—canoodling!"

"She has to see us doing it all the time. Call it payback."

"Ugh." Zuko holds onto Sokka's hand until he walks out of range, then braces himself and stands by his bedroom door. He presses one ear to it, listening.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly isn't Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2 for Jazz Orchestra being blasted over their high-end stereo system.

"Okay, what?" he asks, baffled, walking into the living room.

Azula and Suki are practicing box-steps, furniture pushed out of the way, Suki clumsily leading under Azula's not-too-gentle guidance. Hauling her around the floor, really. Suki's laughing, and Azula is adorably heated. "You're making this more difficult than it actually is," she says, tugging Suki closer and kicking her foot forward. "Step here, and then I follow, and—oh, Zuzu. Come show how it's done."

Suki winks at Zuko as he reluctantly takes her place, and Zuko suddenly has no doubt that she's screwing up on purpose just to spend more time in Azula's embrace. Sighing, Zuko takes her place. His father insisted that Zuko and Azula learn some fairly advanced ballroom dances for the many socials and cotillions they were forced to attend in their youth. He falls into an easy promenade with Azula, their bodies falling naturally back into their training, elegant and confident. "Should I ask what incited this in the first place?" he asks, hand on Azula's toned shoulder blade.

"Just figured it would be impressive if I could do more than sway back and forth at the reception," says Suki. "I know Aang and Katara are fantastic dancers."

"I do not buy for a second that you don't know how to dance," says Zuko.

"I mean, I can cut loose, but my moves aren't super family-appropriate," says Suki.

"Can vouch for that," says Sokka, entering the room. He's obviously been crying, but he's cleaned himself up, and his smile is genuine. "Didn't you get kicked out of a club one time for climbing into one of those gogo cages when the dancer was on break?"

"I was pulling in all the tips," Suki says, laughing. "Oh my god, Sokka, remember when you got in trouble with your flatmate for having the Skype dance party with me at three in the morning?"

"We were so drunk, dude."

"That routine we made up—?"

"Holy shit, yes! Pump it, pump it, pump it, pump it!" Sokka shouts, and he and Suki leap into a ridiculous dance, feet apart and hands behind their heads. They proceed to roll their hips and pelvic thrust and point out into an invisible crowd, singing something loudly in what sounds like phonetic Korean. And damn, do they look good. Suki moves fluidly, body control honed by years of martial arts training, and Sokka, of course, has got legs for days. When they finish, they fall against each other, laughing. _Beautiful_ , Zuko thinks.

"Beautiful," Azula whispers.

"Did you say something?" Zuko says loudly.

"No!" says Azula, reddening.

"We should teach them the Pump It Dance," Suki says to Sokka.

"I don't know," he says. "Do you think they're worthy?"

"I think," she says, glancing sideways at Azula through thick, flirty lashes, "that they are the worthiest people in the whole world."

So Zuko and Azula spend their time dancing to the Korean track that Sokka pulls up on his computer, awkward and stumbling and shy, letting Sokka and Suki teach them the silly performance that turns amorous when Sokka rests his arms around Zuko's neck and tugs their hips flush.

"Move with me," Sokka instructs, his smile sweet and confident. "Trust me, you look gorgeous."

It's so different from ballroom lessons that Zuko has no choice but to relax, and it's nice, letting go while someone else does the guiding. But this is what their relationship is now, he supposes. Taking turns holding each other up. Azula laughs her rare laugh beside them, her voice young and open, Suki and Sokka sing badly, and Zuko grins and closes his eyes and lets Sokka lead him as they dance long into the warm, comfortable evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://foyal.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
